


Begged and Borrowed

by GlimmerOfGold



Category: Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, Hades (Video Game 2018), The Iliad - Homer, The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon Era, Canon Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, Fluff, Love, M/M, Mythology References, References to Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, Romance, Smut, Trojan War, War, With A Twist
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-15 10:27:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 26,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28811919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GlimmerOfGold/pseuds/GlimmerOfGold
Summary: Stuck in the middle of a war that he cannot understand, the last thing Patroclus expects to find is a love even stronger than the one that started it.
Relationships: Achilles & Patroclus, Achilles & Patroclus (Song of Achilles), Achilles/Patroclus, Achilles/Patroclus (Hades Video Game), Achilles/Patroclus (Song of Achilles), Achilles/Patroclus of Opus (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), Patrochilles
Comments: 142
Kudos: 101





	1. Darkness

**Prologue**

The ground is warm underneath his body, dry earth smelling like summer. His eyes shut, he allows the scent to conjure the memories inside of him. Memories of days long gone, almost forgotten, but suddenly as clear as ever.

* * *

The steady pounding of feet against the earth, dust clouding his vision. A wreath of laurel in his hands, the leaves shiny where his fingers have rubbed against them over and over again. The sunlight reflecting off golden locks of hair as a boy throws his head back in laughter. The laugh of a victor.

“That is what a son should be.”

His father by his side, looming over him like a shadow. He feels small next to him, useless. The useless son of a king. _Patroclus_ , they have named him – _honor of the father_. Even though he is only five, he thinks it must have been a mistake.

There is nothing honorable about him. He is not particularly good at anything; not as skilled with the lyre as his instructor wants him to be, not much smarter than the servant girls helping out in the kitchen.

 _Simple, like his mother_ – his father's voice again, echoing inside his head. Words not meant for him to hear, but rather caught in passing. Still, the king could as well have said them to his face. He has never made a secret out of what a disappointment he thinks his son.

Not skilled, not smart. Not strong either, he thinks, or fast like the boy in front of him. It has taken him no effort at all to surpass the others, though all of them are older and taller.

The wreath is gone from his hands, and he catches sight of it as it is placed on hair as bright as the sun. He watches as the boy is embraced by his own father, pride shining in the man's eyes.

_That is what a son should be._

The ground is dry from weeks without rain, the heat almost unbearable even though he is seated in the shadow. He can feel a drop of sweat run down his temple and reaches up to brush it away. The boy in front of him laughs again, his skin dry despite the exercise.

He does not realize he has been staring until their gazes lock. It is only for a brief moment, over before it has even started, but he is sure he sees pink lips curl into a smile.

The scent of the sun burning down on the earth tickles his nose. Someone calls the boy's name and it sounds like music in his ears.

_Achilles._

* * *

His body feels heavy, almost numb. He thinks he can hear his name, but maybe he is mistaken. The sound seems to come from far away, an echo carried over by the wind. He tries to blink but his eyes will not open, his lids heavy with sleep. Oh, how blissful it would be to rest.

“Patroclus.” _Pa-tro-clus._

The voice sounds familiar, he thinks. He has heard it before, distorted with laughter and weighed down by all the burdens of the world. An image flashes before his eyes, of a man with golden hair. He smiles.

* * *

The first time he sees him, he is walking along the line of the shore, the waves nipping at his feet. No one is out there during this time of night, the noises of battle replaced with a soothing silence.

He knows he should not be there either, not alone, not without anything to defend himself with. Yet everything looks so peaceful in the dim light that he can't bring himself to feel concern. The war has ended, if only for the day. And even if it hadn't, it is not his to fight.

Sometimes he wonders whether his father was right, after all. Maybe he _is_ simple, unable to understand what seems to make perfect sense to everyone around him. The men shout and argue about pride, about honor, about justice. The women sigh about love and devotion.

_Love._

He is not sure he has ever understood it. To him it is but a word. One that has the power to end lives, strong enough to form a bond or break one. One capable of changing a person's destiny, carving their fate into stone unchangeably. One strong enough to cause a war.

Words can be powerful, he has learned that much.

 _Prince,_ they called him, and he was safe.  
 _Coward_ , Clysonymus spat at him.  
 _Exile,_ they whispered, and everything was taken from him.

The same blood in his veins, yet it took only one word and he was no longer the same. No longer royal. No longer his father's son.

Now he is only Patroclus, stuck in the middle of a war because words of love were uttered between the wrong two persons. Or are they the right ones? He is not sure anymore.

His toes bury in the sand as he sits and gazes out at the sea, watches as the wind drives the waves towards the shore. It is a pleasant night, the sky clear and the stars shining above him. The air smells like warm earth and salt.

He does not see him until it is too late - the man already so close that there is no way to escape without catching his attention. He exhales in relief when he realizes that he, too, is unarmed. The silvery shimmer of the moon catches in his bright hair, lighting a spark of familiarity inside of Patroclus. Has he seen him before? He does not remember.

When their gazes lock, he holds his breath. The man's eyes are thoughtful, expression so unchanging that for a moment he wonders whether he has noticed him at all. Then he moves, and he gets his answer.

“You cannot see as many here.”

The words catch him off-guard and he stares at him, his head tilted to the side. _See what?_ he wants to ask but the stranger does not give him the chance to even open his mouth.

“The stars,” he clarifies, his eyes moving to where Patroclus' have just lingered.

For a moment, he allows his mind to wander. The sky above Troy has always looked bright to him. Not like Opus - when he thinks about the place of his birth now, it is always dark and grey, barely any good memories of it left inside of him.

“More than where I come from," is all he says.

The words linger between them, and somehow they are enough. He knows he should wonder, should ask the man's name. Is he Trojan or Greek? Friend or foe? None of it matters. Right then they are only two men glancing at the night sky, wondering whether it looks the same as it did when they were children.

When finally he turns to catch another look at the other, the spot by his side is empty. He has not even heard him leave.

* * *

There should be stars, he thinks. The darkness surrounding him is too thick, like he could cut through it with a sword if only he tried. He is not sure he would even be able to lift it. His body doesn't feel like it belongs to him anymore, the earth beneath him no longer tangible. The warmth he felt before has faded and he can't tell what is sky and what is ground.

It should be quiet in such darkness, but instead there is noise. Shouts and footsteps, next to him one moment and far away the next. And his name - over and over again.

Patroclus. Patroclus.  
 _Pa-tro-clus._

That familiar voice, closer than all the others now. His whispers are somehow clearer, more urgent. No one else has ever said his name like that, he remembers, putting such care into every syllable. He never used to like it, yet coming from the man's lips, he does. He clings to the sound as the darkness threatens to swallow him whole. Where the moon and stars are failing him, it is a ray of light for him to hold on to.

Something is pulling at him, like an eager child tugging at his sleeve, telling him it is time to go. _Go where?_ he wonders but then his attention drifts again, back to the steady chant of his name. There are other words being said but they make him dizzy and so he shuts them out. It is only one voice that he needs.

Maybe, he thinks, the darkness is not all that scary with Achilles to guide him through it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading!  
> I'm still not a hundred percent sure where I am going with this, but I have a rough plan laid out, so updates should be fairly regular.  
> In case it is not entirely obvious yet: Patroclus was still exiled in this story, but obviously not sent to Phthia. When he meets Achilles at Troy, that is the first time he sees him since the race.  
> Please let me know what you think and point out any mistakes you can find!  
> Kudos and Comments would be much appreciated.  
> (No really, I need the attention. Please.)


	2. Of Gods and Mortals

After that first time, their encounters are no longer a rarity. Every night Patroclus catches himself wandering down to the beach, only to find a – now familiar – figure already waiting for him. He does not know why the sight of a stranger fills him with such joy.

Most of their meetings are spent in silence, but he soon realizes he does not mind. There is so much noise during the day – the clash of metal against metal, yelled instructions, cries of pain – that it is a welcome change. Often, the shouts echo inside his head long after the fight has ended, haunt him in his dreams and cause him to wake with a pounding heart. Though he has looked death in the eye early on in his life, he realizes he has not truly known it until now.

Quickly he comes to understand that he does not need words to find out more about the man. Instead of disturbing the silence with his questions, he begins to observe him and notes down all the little details in his mind. When he goes to sleep at night, he repeats them to himself over and over again like a prayer.

The first thing he realizes is that he's a good swimmer. When he catches him in the water rather than waiting by the shore one night, it almost seems like that is where he truly belongs. The way he moves in the dark wet is effortless, almost playful as the waves seem to caress him instead of pulling him under.

"You should come in. The water is pleasantly warm tonight," the stranger encourages but when Patroclus experimentally dips in his toe, he is startled by its coldness.

He laughs as he thinks that, while most of the men around have grown up by the sea, he has never seen anyone as comfortable in its close proximity as this one.

"Maybe another time," he muses, but the other's head has already disappeared beneath the surface once more.

He doesn't reemerge for a startlingly long time and Patroclus, though he barely knows him, finds himself growing concerned. Stories, told to him when he was only a child, come to his mind: The sea is used to being feared and Poseidon is not kind to those trying to tame her. To attempt such a thing would speak of reckless pride, but something tells him it would not be beyond the man.

Restlessly pacing the beach, he gives it another moment, but all he can see is the moonlight reflecting off the waves. With a soft sigh, he steps into the water.

He is in to his waist when something catches around his ankle, pulling him further from the shore. A yelp falls from his lips, but before he can worry about who is going to be woken by it, his head is already drawn under.

All he can hear is the rushing of the waves, steady and strong above him. All he can feel is the cold slowly seeping through his skin. All he can taste against his lips is salt. He doesn't see anything until a pair of arms maneuvers him back to the surface.

"Not that cold, is it?"

Blinking the droplets of water from his lashes, he wants to argue, wants to scold the other for his childish mischief. Yet when he finally regains control of his vision, he catches the smile on the man's lips and forgets what he was about to say in the first place.

Later that night when he slips back into bed, wet tunic left to dry, he can still see it before his eyes. Something about that boyish grin feels oddly familiar.

* * *

It's a festival day and a truce has been called, if only until the morning. A pleasant wind stirs the air and Patroclus allows his feet to carry him towards the close-by woods.

He knows it is risky to be out by himself in the bright daylight, even more dangerous than his nightly trips to the shore, but the promise of cool, glistening streams and the shade of the trees makes him careless. Though not far from the walls of Troy, and equally close to the Greek camp, he has never encountered another soul while there - and he goes there often.

Over the course of his life, but even more so in the wake of the war, he has found that he needs these moments of solitude like he needs the air to breathe. Though it has become increasingly more difficult to wander around as he pleases, he keeps finding ways to justify his actions, both to himself and others. It is why he carries a small bundle with himself now, ready to hold the herbs he has promised to collect.

More and more men are carried back wounded these days, so many that he has stopped counting. While he is glad for the opportunity to stay off the field himself, it pains him every time they lose another life to the war. He has never been a good fighter, better at fixing wounds rather than inflicting them. It has taken some time, but at this point he has become one of their most skilled physicians. Yet not even he can save them all.

 _Is it worth it?_ he wonders before casting the thought aside. It is not his decision to make.

He feels the other's presence before he catches sight of him, causing him to stop in his tracks and hide himself behind a tree. Never before has he seen him in daylight but there is no doubt in his heart that this is the same person he has met every single night for the past weeks.

While the moon accentuates his every feature perfectly, clothing him in its silver glow, it is the sun that truly flatters him. It catches in his hair, lustrous locks falling to his shoulders. It enhances the natural glow of his skin, making Patroclus long to reach out and touch it. The light seems to cover the man in gold, and for a moment he is sure it must be a god standing in front of him, disguised in the body of this flawless mortal.

It is only when he steps out of the shadows and their gazes finally lock that he realizes how incredibly human his eyes are. Their deep green reminds him both of the sea and the young leaves of spring, but there is a conflict hidden behind them that he has never noticed until now. Even someone this beautiful, it seems, is not spared from the worries of the world.

The herbs are long forgotten as they sit side by side, allowing the warm air to wash away their sorrows. _Are they the same?_ Patroclus muses, but the thought fades as quickly as it has come. He still does not know who this man is, how could he even begin to understand his worries?

Maybe it is the daylight that makes this encounter different from the others, but for once he feels the need to fill the silence between them. Wrapped in the quiet of the night, it is easy to sit and say nothing. Yet now, with the birds chiming around them and the rustling of the trees, he craves to hear the man's voice. Inspired by the blooming meadow near the stream, he speaks up.

“Have you ever heard the story of Narcissus?”

The stranger – _is he still a stranger?_ \- raises his brows at him, prompting him to continue.

“My mother told it to me when I was a child. The flowers ...” He gestures towards them. “They are named after him.”

“Why would you name a flower after a man?”

“It will make sense to you when you hear it,” Patroclus smiles and begins his tale.

“Narcissus was a young man, dashing both in skill and looks. One day, while in the woods, a mountain nymph fell deeply in love with him. Her name was Echo and she had been cursed - every word she would speak would not be her own, but a mere repetition of those said to her.”

“The gods and their tricks,” the man sighs and Patroclus finds himself nodding before he continues.

“Narcissus, sensing that someone was watching him, called out … but all he received in return were the same words he had just spoken. When finally Echo revealed herself, he rejected her, and her broken heart caused her to wither away until she became sound only. But the goddess Nemesis had been watching everything and decided to punish Narcissus for his cruelty. You see, when he was born a prophecy was made that he would grow of old age, if only he never laid eyes upon himself.”

The man by his side has gone silent, and when he glances over to see if he is still listening, he finds him staring back in thought. Something in his expression has shifted and he looks even more burdened than before. Suddenly Patroclus regrets chosing this particular story.

“I can stop,” he offers carefully, but the other shakes his head.

“Please, continue.” And so he does.

“One summer's day, Nemesis lured him towards a pool in the woods. When he glanced down, its surface was so calm and clear that it was but a mirror. Not realizing it was his own reflection glancing back at him, he fell in love with the image, unable to turn his gaze away. Soon, however, he grew heartbroken – no matter how long he stared, the man in the water did not seem to reciprocate his feelings. Overcome with grief and passion, he melted away until only a golden flower was left in his place.”

“It was his own fault, though. He must have been vain to fall for his reflection.”

"I cannot blame him," Patroclus muses, shaking his head with a soft laugh. "They do say he was beautiful."

Turning his gaze back to the man by his side, he catches him breaking off one of the flowers by the riverbed, looking at it for a moment before placing it in his hands.

“And beauty he has left behind.”

The air is warm, but the other's touch is warmer. If it was him glancing back at him from the water's surface, Patroclus thinks, he would not be able to look away, either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed this little look back to the days when it all began!  
> I may or may not have butchered Greek mythology for this - please forgive me. If you find any mistakes in the story of Narcissus, feel free to point them out to me. There are so many different versions of this myth!  
> As always: Comments, Kudos or Bookmarks would be much appreciated! This is my first multi-chapter story, so please give all the feedback you can.


	3. Stars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: There are explicit mentions of death in this chapter. If this bothers you, simply skip the paragraph starting with "Coward [...]" and resume reading after the horizontal line. This is the part where Patroclus remembers the reason for his exile and you get a little more insight into what happens after the incident. Please let me know if you want me to sum it up for you.  
> Other than that, enjoy reading!

As the days pass, the flower wilts away but the warm feeling in Patroclus' chest remains. More often than not his mind drifts to the golden-haired man, his easy smile and pensive eyes, and he wills the hours to pass faster just so that he can see him again.

They do not miss a single night. It's like an unspoken promise between them, an oath sworn with neither words nor blood, yet they both hold true to it. As soon as Helios' carriage has disappeared beyond the horizon, taking the last light with it, the remaining hours of the day belong only to the two of them. It is in the dark of the night that Patroclus finds himself drawn to the other like a moth to the flame.

It never fails to amuse him how close they are to the camp, as terrifying as it is that the man can make him forget all about it. Hundreds and hundreds of men sleeping restlessly in their tents not far off, yet they might as well be alone in the world.

After their first conversation in the sunlight, it feels as though a spell has been broken. They still enjoy each other's company in silence often, but it is no longer a necessity. The more time they spend together, the more Patroclus longs to share parts of himself with the other, small snippets of his life wrapped into words.

 _This_ , he tells him, _this and this and this._

He tells him about his childhood, the little of it that he can still remember. The races, by foot and by boat; hot summer days; the merchants in the harbor playing games of dice. An unpleasant feeling settles in his stomach as, in his mind, their grinning faces twist and change until they resemble that of a boy.

* * *

“Coward”, Clysonymus snarls at him viciously, but in retrospection Patroclus sees that his eyes are only those of a child who does not know any better.

“I am no coward,” he protests weakly, hating his voice for how much it trembles. Even though he is the prince, his peers do not respect him. He's too small, too quiet to be considered much of a threat.

“Your father says you are. Now give me the dice.”

Everything inside of him longs to stumble back as the taller boy approaches him, fists raised, but his feet won't move. He is scared. Angry. Upset with what the world has given him. A cruel father and a simple mother, a title but no backbone to defend it.

_This is what a son should be._

Bright blond hair and determined green eyes. A self-assured grin that speaks of victory. No one would dare to shove that boy around. _Achilles_ would make his father proud, not run like a scared animal. Bracing himself, he glares at Clysonymus.

“No.”

It doesn't feel like he is the one shoving the boy, and for a moment all he can do is stare at his own hands. There is no way he possesses this kind of strength, he thinks. It was a mistake, he thinks. The other will get up and make him pay, he thinks. He is going to regret fighting back at all. Then he glances down, and his heart stops.

The rocky ground is covered in red, blooming like poppies from where the boy's head rests against it. It is only when the metallic smell reaches his nose that he realizes it's blood.

Clysonymus' lips part with a strange gurgling sound, wide eyes glance up at him. The eyes of a child.

They're all he can see when he starts running, as far as he can before his feet tire and he collapses beneath an olive tree. They do not leave his mind when he is carried back to the palace. _Death or Exile_ , the boy's family demands, but he hardly hears the outcome. When they send him away, he thinks he can see relief cross his father's face.

“Where are we going?” he whispers as his hometown disappears in the distance.

“Troy,” a resigned voice tells him. “The only ones who would take you.”  
  


* * *

He says none of it out loud, but the memory – though blurred and incomplete in his mind - chills him to the bone. It is only when a hand comes to rest on his arm that he snaps back into reality. Would its touch still be so gentle if the other knew what he is capable of?

“It sounds like a beautiful place gloomed by ugly memories,” he hears him say with a guarded smile. They do not speak of Opus again.

During his time of silence he learns more about the other, and the list in his mind becomes longer and longer. The man could swim before he could walk. He has many foster brothers but is close to none of them. He thinks that bows are the weapons of cowards. He was born by the sea but spent his youth in the mountains. He knows a bit of healing - a fact that brings the smile back to Patroclus' lips at last.

_This and this and this._

The next night, he finds his own voice again. He tells him about his mother, how she would not speak much during the day but tell him stories at bedtime. Memories wash over him of walks on the beach and gentle smiles, skipping stones in the light of the setting sun and sitting in the warm sand until the sky above them has grown dark. He remembers her love for music, and learns that the other is skilled with the lyre.

“Play it for me tomorrow,” he demands, though he knows he shouldn't. They're already testing their luck by raising their voices. Still, he can see that his request is being considered.

They tell each other everything and nothing at the same time. The man rolls his eyes at a new drinking game his comrades have come up with - but does not say whose fire they sit around while they play it. Patroclus speaks of the wounds he has tended to that day - but does not mention who inflicted them. They tiptoe around each other, always making sure not to bare too much of themselves in the process.

Yet the more time they spend together, the less he finds himself caring. What does it matter who the other is fighting for? What does it matter on which side of the city's walls he resides? When he looks at him, he sees neither Greek nor Trojan, just a man who seems as fed up with this war as he is.

The next morning he hears the news of another raid, another nearby village destroyed, and he wonders how much blood truly stains his friend's gentle hands.

* * *

That evening he shows up before the other. It's a mild night, but the sky is clouded and dark. As are his spirits. His heart feels heavier than it usually does around this time of day, too many thoughts occupying his mind for him to let them slide. Has he been wrong to evade the truth for so long?

There is no doubt now that the man, the one he has grown so fond of, is fighting for the enemy. Part of him, he thinks, has known it from the start; yet when he sees him approach from the Greek camp his suspicions are confirmed for good.

His steps remain full of purpose and confidence, even as he catches him watching them. Does he not realize they're on different sides, or does he simply not care?

“You're early,” he observes, dropping by Patroclus' side.

It is only then that he notices the instrument in the other's hands. It's beautiful, a finer piece of craftsmanship than he has ever seen before, wood carved with the most precise care, delicate touches of gold only adding to its value. An image flashes before his eyes of his mother's lyre, now only another painful reminder of everything he has lost. They gave it to Paris after his arrival at Troy, a beautiful instrument fit for a handsome prince.

Is this what they have promised the Greek soldiers - spoils and riches? Or have fame and glory brought them to the shores of Troy? None of them have ever asked Helen what _she_ wants, after all. And what is more honorable than saving a stolen princess?

He is pulled from his thoughts when music starts to fill the air. Elegant fingers lure the sweetest sounds from the lyre's strings, a song he does not recognize but that touches his heart nonetheless. There is yearning in each note the other plays, the melody full of hope and hopelessness at the same time.

It is funny, he thinks, how pain and beauty can be so firmly intertwined sometimes. Then his gaze catches the man's and he realizes that they are unified in him, too. Unlike the sun, the moon makes him look utterly human, enhances the uncertainty lingering behind his observant eyes. Can he blame him for his flaws when he has so many of his own?

“Thank you,” he says, unsure what he is more grateful for – the song or the epiphany it has brought along. The moment feels so precious, almost sacred, that he does not dare to raise his voice above a whisper.

It's as though something has fallen into place. Even the sky seems to notice, because – finally – the clouds give way and the stars appear, prompting the other to lie down next to him and raise his hand.

“See this one there? That's Polaris. And over there, the Pleiades.”

He points them out to him one by one, melodic voice soothing Patroclus into an almost dreamlike state. The man's body is warm where it's pressed against his side. How can he be the enemy, when his presence brings him such comfort?

They are so close that every single one of his senses is focused on the other. He can feel his breath against his shoulder as he speaks, can see his smile from the corners of his eyes. His scent is that of sandalwood and something sweeter. Pomegranate, he thinks, and breathes in a little deeper.

“Where did you learn their names?”

The man laughs and the sound causes his heart to flutter inside his chest. Somehow, it is even more captivating than the music from before.

“My teacher made me study them.”

“And the constellations? Did he show them to you, too?”

He doesn't receive an answer, at least not in words. Instead, calloused fingertips map each of them out against Patroclus' skin, leaving behind a pleasant warmth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for sticking around!  
> As always: Comments, Kudos and Bookmarks would be much appreciated.  
> If you want to message me about anything at all, feel free to reach out to me on tumblr:  
> @glimmerofgold


	4. The Best of the Greeks

He watches silently as the rocky shore of Opus becomes smaller and smaller in the distance before finally it is completely swallowed by the deep blue of the sea. Never before has he traveled by ship, but the winds are in their favor and soon the gentle swaying feels almost soothing to him.

All day he stands at the rail while the sun shines down on his face and the breeze ruffles his hair. The wild curls have always been impossible to tame but here they never quite seem to lie flat, no matter how hard he tries. After a while, he simply gives up. He is no longer a prince and has no one to impress.

When they pull into the harbor, he almost refuses to leave the ship. He knows that it is foolish, that he needs to take responsibility for his actions, but at the same time he is only a boy, far away from the place he is no longer allowed to call home. Troy looks intimidating with its high walls and in a way it reminds him of a prison. Briefly, he wonders whether the people there will notice the blood that is staining his hands, too. Though he never touched the boy's lifeless body, he can vividly see it every time he glances down - fingertips stained red, red, red; a sea of poppies threatening to drown him.

As he is escorted to the palace, unfamiliar faces cast him curious glances. He keeps his eyes trained firmly on the ground in hopes they will look away. The news of his arrival, that he is sure of, must have already spread. No one would take in an exile without any hidden agenda - he knows he will become either a soldier or a symbol of Priam's benevolence. When finally he meets the king, he realizes with relief that it is the latter. Back then, the war is still far away.

* * *

"Patroclus, did you hear me?"

He blinks, startled for a moment, before finally reality has him back in its grasp. More than ever before his past seems to haunt him these days, the memories flooding his mind in such a vivid manner that sometimes he feels like they're happening all over again.

Looking up now, he sees a young woman glancing back at him with an expression of both amusement and concern. She is beautiful, her rich brown hair falling in ringlets around her shoulders. In her arms rests a young child.

"Andromache," he exhales, bowing his head. "Forgive me. My mind was elsewhere. How may I help you?"

"I think he is running a fever," the prince's wife informs him, and now it is definitely worry that is laced into her voice. "He has been crying all day."

Indeed, the babe's big, dark eyes are filled to the brim with tears as he clings to his mother's chest, and Patroclus reaches out to touch him. The chubby red cheeks seem to burn beneath his fingertips, causing his brows to furrow in concern as he pulls away. Amid the horrors of war, he has almost forgotten that there are still the usual illnesses to tend to as well.

"May I?" he asks and reluctantly Andromache hands her child over to him. A soothing smile is playing on his lips as he cradles him in his arms, free hand reaching for a vial. "You may not like this," he informs the toddler with a small hum, "but it will make you feel better in no time at all." Poor little Astyanax seems to be so exhausted from crying that he swallows the mixture without a fuss. "There, see? That wasn't so bad. Now you just need some rest."

As he places him back in his mother's embrace, she smiles at him gratefully. "Thank you, Patroclus. What would we do without you?"

A laugh tumbles from his lips at her words. "You would go to someone else. I'm not the only one around here who knows how to heal."

"Yet it seems we could use many more capable of it." Andromache's expression darkens a little and he reaches out to touch her arm.

Of all the members of the court, she is probably his favorite, with her kind eyes and soothing voice. He can still vividly remember seeing her for the first time, at the celebrations held in honor of her and Hector's union. That night, beneath her happy smile, she looked just as out of place as he felt - two outsiders trying to build a new life in Troy.

"Is your husband well?" he asks in an attempt to distract her from her sorrow. He does not see any of the princes around much these days.

His words seem to have been the wrong ones, because the woman's eyes sadden further.

"I'm afraid for him, Patroclus," she admits. "They say it will be any day now that he will have to face their greatest warrior."

 _Ah,_ he thinks. _Aristos Achaion_ _\- the best of the Greeks_. He has heard many stories about Achilles' cruelty, how he walks the battlefield with the confidence of a god and leaves nothing but death in his wake. Some of their best men have fallen victim to his spear.

Deep inside his chest, he feels sympathy for Hector, the only one who openly voices his disapproval of the war. Though the prince of Troy is a competent leader and skilled fighter, he can see why his wife fears for his life.

All he can do is offer her a reassuring smile. "And when he does, he will return."

The name Achilles does not leave his mind all day. He has heard it before, he thinks - before Troy, before the war - but he can't remember where.

* * *

When night falls, he is eager to abandon the thoughts that are haunting his mind, images of blood and war and terror. The day has tired him, legs heavy from rushing back and forth, but he knows he is in no position to complain. At least he didn't have to risk his life today like so many others.

As he sits and waits, he hums a melody to himself, the same one that fell from the lyre's strings just the night before. Something about it has stuck with him, those sweet sounds of both sadness and hope describing what he is unable to put into words most of the time.

"You have a good memory."

Patroclus doesn't have to turn to know who the voice belongs to, a small smile immediately tugging at the corners of his lips. How a single person can have such an effect on his mood, he isn't sure.

"You played well. It was very memorable," he counters as the other resumes his seat by his side.

"Even though it tells no story? Surely a song about the deeds of a hero would have been easier to remember."

At that, Patroclus can't help but roll his eyes.

"Will you believe me when I say I never liked those? All these acts of bravery, but at what cost? None of them ever spend their lives in happiness."

The words linger between them for a moment as he waits for the man's reply. When it doesn't come, he turns his head to look at him.

If he has seen him contemplative before, it was nothing compared to this. The other's brows are furrowed in deep thought, lips pressed together so tight that they form nothing but a thin line. He looks pained, almost lost, and it causes Patroclus' heart to ache inside his chest.

"What troubles you?"

Reaching out, he takes his hand into his own. No sound falls from his lips, but he is sure the man understands it as the gentle encouragement that it is. And yet, the silence lingers.

The moonlight casts soft shadows on the other's skin, making him look all the more wistful. Patroclus selfishly wonders whether he is the only one who gets to see him like this.

When finally he does speak, it's almost startling in its intensity.

"My mother. She wishes for them to sing songs like that about me one day. About the honor I have brought my people."

Patroclus carefully stores away the information in the back of his mind. Now is not the time to wonder about what kind of honor a war can truly bring along. Instead, he just nods.

"And is that what you hope for, as well?"

"Would a hero welcome death in exchange for eternal glory?" The other's words are carefully chosen and Patroclus can tell that he has put much thought into his reply. "Would he willingly accept his fate only to be remembered in song? _The best of the Greeks,_ slaying hundreds of men ... and what for?"

"I have always thought there is much more honor to be found in kindness than in how many lives one takes."

Achilles - for it is Achilles - smiles at him desolately.

"It doesn't matter. I will not leave Troy. The prophecy foretold it long ago."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a refresher (in case I did not make it obvious enough):  
> Andromache - the wife of Hector  
> Astyanax (sometimes also referred to as Scamandrius) - son of Andromache and Hector
> 
> Thank you for taking the time to read! I hope you enjoyed this chapter.  
> Comments, Kudos or Bookmarks would make my day!


	5. Sanctuary

_Achilles._

Whenever the Trojans speak of him, their terror-stricken voices create the image of a monster – ferocious and cruel. Yet no matter how hard he tries, Patroclus cannot find any similarities between the man in front of him and the warrior who's said to have the blood of so many on his hands.

Instead of bloodlust, he sees springtime and sunsets when he looks into his eyes. When he hears his voice, it does not make him flinch, but caresses his soul like gentle waves. Not once during their time together has he felt anything less than save and he knows that, were anyone to threaten him on one of these nights, the other would come to his aid right away. With him, Achilles is gentle and understanding. And most of all, he is trusting.

He learns more in these next few days than in all the weeks they've known each other.

Achilles tells him about his childhood, about his father's palace and the window in his room that faces the sea. He recounts sitting in the shade of the olive trees and taunting his teacher at his lyre lessons – an ill tempered man, he notes, with a frown permanently stamped on his face. A laugh passes his lips as he mentions the endless noise during dinner time, the chatter of Peleus' many foster children filling the room.

Patroclus silently envies them. What would it have been like to not be the only outcast? To grow up in Phthia instead of Troy, spend his youth by Achilles' side? Quickly he casts the thought aside. He could have met a far worse fate than exile after all, and King Priam has always been kind to him.

When Achilles tells him that his mother is a goddess, he wonders how he did not draw that conclusion sooner. There is something about the air surrounding the other that leaves no doubt he must be at least partly divine. Did he not mistake him for a God in the light of day?

Finally, he feels like he can put some of the pieces together, his knowledge about the other no longer consisting of only scattered bits of information. Achilles' love for the water, the way the waves seem to bow to him as soon as he comes near. His ability to appear by his side without making a single sound - like a lion approaching its prey. His flawless complexion, shining as though he has been showered with gold. It all suddenly makes sense and leaves Patroclus even more in awe of him.

The thing he enjoys hearing about the most, however, is Achilles' time on Mount Pelion.

The way the the other describes it, the place sounds almost like a sanctuary, peaceful and inviting and like an image straight out of Patroclus' dreams. He closes his eyes and listens intently as the man tells him about everything his teacher, Chiron, taught him: the plants and the stars, how to survive in the wilderness even in winter, how to make a weapon and how to heal even the most gruesome wounds.

“Chiron?“ he asks curiously because the name sounds vaguely familiar.

„He trained the most famous of our heroes.“ Achilles' gaze turns thoughtful then, just like it did the first time he told him about the prophecy. „He knew they would ask me to fight even before father sent for me. Told me to think of an answer.“

„And did you want to? Fight, I mean?“

The question leaves his lips before he can think better of it, and immediately he regrets it. If there is one thing that has become painfully clear to him during their time together, it's that Achilles does not like to talk about the war. Whether that is because he finds no pleasure in it, or whether he simply wants to escape reality for a while, he is not sure. But then the other continues and he realizes that it must be a little bit of both.

„Yes,“ Achilles says, then shakes his head. „No. I did not want to leave just yet and this war never made much sense to me ...“

Patroclus almost laughs at how familiar the sentiment sounds, like the other is putting into words what has been on his mind for a long time.

„... but the choice was always between this or withering away, forgotten. I did not think I could bear it. Now I'm not so sure anymore.“

There is so much regret in the other's voice that it almost breaks Patroclus. He is not sure he understands it completely - but then again he is no longer a prince, definitely not the son of a goddess and the expectations imposed on him these days can hardly be compared to what Achilles is faced with all the time. What must it be like, he wonders, to go out there every day knowing it may well be the last time?

„What if you left?“

Achilles laughs, but there is no humor in it. „I cannot,“ he states, and he sounds so sure that Patroclus does not dare question it.

Suddenly, he finds himself no longer grieving only for the dead, but even more so for the living.

„I don't understand it, either,“ he tells him after a while. „The war. I know that to steal another's wive is to insult their honor most of all, but she went ...“ Internally, he curses himself for slipping up. „What if she chose to go with him? Why let hundreds of men die for a woman who would rather be with someone else?“

Turning his head, he catches the other's gaze, wondering whether he should have just kept his words to himself. But before he can worry too much, Achilles shakes his head.

„I don't think it was about her in the first place,“ he states and Patroclus' stomach twists uncomfortably. „The whole thing was a good excuse, however, to finally make a move.“

„So you think it would have happened either way?“

„Have you heard Agamemnon? I know it would have.“

And with that, they fall back into silence, once more each caught up in their own thoughts.

* * *

He doesn't tell anyone about it.

Part of him thinks that, most likely, they have already come to this realization on their own. Judging by what is said about Helen's husband, he does not seem nearly strong-willed enough to go to such lengths for a woman, and everyone knows that it is his brother who called for war. But the real reason he does not bring it up is because he does not want to betray Achilles' trust.

 _Achilles_ , whom he – of course – also hasn't mentioned to a single soul. In the early morning, when sleep won't come, he wonders what they would say if they found out. Would they ask him to keep seeing him, to gather useful information about the Greeks? Would they accuse him of treason and put an end to it right then and there? The thought makes him shudder. If there is one thing he is sure of, it is that no one can find out – and that includes keeping his identity from Achilles himself.

„You never told me your name,“ the other realizes one night, looking at him with curious eyes.

He is tempted to tell him that he never told him his, either, but then realizes that Achilles is probably used to not having to introduce himself.

„Menoitiades,“ he informs him, and he has not said it in so long that the name tastes wrong on his tongue. It is almost unimaginable that he once carried it.

Achilles raises his brows in amusement. „I did not ask who your father is,“ he teases and Patroclus sighs.

The voice of reason inside his head tells him to lie, to come up with a different name altogether, but for everything that the other has already shared with him, he knows the least he can do is give him this.

„Was,“ he corrects quietly. „That's who my father was. I was exiled as a boy.“ It is the most specific detail he has ever mentioned in Achilles' presence, and he well knows it may lead to his doom. Still, he continues. „My name is Patroclus.“

„Patroclus,“ the other repeats and it sounds like honey from his lips. Then he says it again, and again, testing out each syllable with precise care. „I like it.“

Just three words, yet they manage to relieve all tension from Patroclus' shoulders and cause the color to rise high up on his cheeks.

„Achilles,“ he says, well aware that he sounds like a fool, but unable to hide the smile slowly taking over his own features.

The other's expression mirrors his own when he looks at him from where they are both lying in the sand, heads turned towards each other.

„Patroclus,“ Achilles says once more, and then they're both laughing, faces so close that their noses are brushing together.  
  
If only he can have this forever, Patroclus thinks, he will never ask for anything else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do I feel personally offended every time I read a slow burn romance? Yes.  
> Did I choose to do the same thing to all of you? Also yes.  
> Sorry not sorry.
> 
> Let me know what you think!


	6. Roots and Branches

It's the sweetest kind of torture, the way each day feels fleeting and endless all at once.

Whenever Achilles is not by his side, a longing resides in Patroclus' chest that is unlike anything he has ever experienced before. It seems impossible to focus even on the easiest of tasks, his actions happening by mere default while his attention is somewhere else entirely.

It's a thirst that cannot be sated, every minute spent with the other like a drop of water on his lips, promising more - but the very moment he leaves, his throat ends up feeling even drier than it did before. No matter how much he takes, he simply cannot get enough, always craving more and more and more.

If Achilles were a river, he thinks, he would drown in him with a smile on his face.

The intensity of his longing scares him, yet at the same time he would not wish for it to be any other way. Too sweet is the other's laugh when it erupts from his mouth, too bright the green of his eyes when they gaze into his own, the image forever preserved in his mind.

There is more, still.

Even when they're apart, he can feel the man's touch against his skin.

At every given opportunity, Achilles brushes through his curls or traces patterns against his shoulder. His hand lingers against the small of Patroclus' back as they walk along the shore or squeezes his knee in reassurance. More often than not, he ends up wrapping his fingers around his own. Patroclus is not used to such casual touches but Achilles is shameless in his actions, never misses a chance to bring them into contact. Who is he to complain?

The spots he has touched tingle with warmth for days to come.

It is on one of these nights, their fingers laced together, that he wonders how he ever spent a single day without the other in his life. Though their conversation is not always filled with joy and laughter, his troubles somehow appear lighter in Achilles' presence, and judging from the looks he casts him, it's a mutual sensation. Time and time again, they offer each other a moment of peace amid the chaos.

Not in his wildest dreams could he have imagined things to turn out this way. Had someone told him he would find himself hand in hand, cheek to cheek with this man sculpted from gold, he would have laughed at them and rolled his eyes.

His newfound reality feels like one of the stories his mother used to tell him and sometimes it almost seems too good to be true. Any moment now, he thinks, he will wake up, the dream shattered and gone forever. Then Achilles squeezes his hand and he knows it is real.

In the middle of the war something managed to grow between them, and though fragile like a young sapling in spring, he knows that it has the potential to take root.

„Do you ever wonder?“ he asks, turning his head towards the other.

„Wonder what?“

Achilles' eyes remain fixed on the night sky, features relaxed. The small line of worry that sometimes appears between his brows is smooth tonight, and his lips are curved into the hint of a smile. Patroclus is sure there is not a more beautiful sight to be found in the world.

„Why we met. Of all the people who could have been roaming the beach that night ... it was you and me.“

It's not the first time he has wondered about it, asked himself whether their meeting was one of mere chance or – and his heart flutters inside his chest at the thought – a strange twist of fate.

The gods are cruel like that, he thinks wistfully, sharing only fragments of their knowledge even when a lifetime is concerned. Achilles has told him many things about the prophecy, but surely not even he knows every detail of it. He barely dares to hope that somewhere, between the lines speaking of the other's glorious deeds and tragic end, his own name is written.

"I'm glad it was you," Achilles pulls him from his thoughts, releasing his hand in order to turn onto his side. "Whatever led you to me that night, I'm not going to question it."

Warmth blossoms inside Patroclus' chest at the words and he has to remind himself to breathe evenly. For what must be the hundredth time that night, his gaze flickers towards the other man's lips, soft and inviting and oh so close. Yet every time he feels like giving in to the temptation, he stops himself.

The touches, the gentle whispers against his ear, it's simply who Achilles is, not used to thinking before acting. As a prince, the other never had to ask permission; as the son of a goddess, he never had to fear rejection; as the Greek army's best fighter, he does not need to worry about possible repercussions.

Patroclus knows that, no matter what his heart longs for, he can't allow himself to read too much into it. At the same time, he wonders whether that same foolish organ was just waiting for this man to finally awaken it.

"I'm glad, too.”

The sound of their breathing mixes with the gentle rushing of the waves. Once more no words are needed, every single one of Patroclus' emotions laid open on his face. The way Achilles studies him with an unreadable expression, he is almost sure can read his mind.

“Yeah?”

There is a strange kind of tension lingering in the air between them, one that makes Patroclus' skin prickle. It's like the moment of calm before a storm, somehow tangible and indescribable at once.

A low roll of thunder sounds inside his chest and he counts.

1 … 2 … 3 … 4 ...

Lightning comes in the form of lips crashing against his own.

Their movements are feverish, yet at the same time he feels as though the whole world has come to a halt in their favor. All he can see, taste, feel is the other; the sensation too much and not enough all the same.

Forgotten is the war as the other's lashes tickle his cheeks like the wings of a butterfly. Forgotten all his secrets and worries as his hand comes up to cup Achilles' neck. None of it matters, not in this moment that is theirs alone.

His fingers grasp at the air.

Where there was warmth just a second ago, now there is nothing but the cool breeze coming from the sea. In place of Achilles, there is only emptiness. All he can do is sit and watch as the other disappears in the distance, his feet making no sound as they hit the earth.

Inside his chest, lightning and thunder turn into an outpour of rain.

* * *

Achilles is not there the next night, and not the one after that.

The storm brewing inside Patroclus' heart has transpired to the real world, it seems, because just as he reaches the beach, the first rain starts to fall - drops dark against the sand, the embodiment of his sorrow.

Worse than the pain and uncertainty, however, is the silence. While in the other's presence it was comfortable, now it is weighing him down, mocking him. He is almost glad when the wind picks up, the waves becoming higher and higher as they drive towards the shore.

It is only then that he remembers Achilles' mother is a goddess of the sea. Suddenly, the surf seems to curse his name, the spray reaching for his ankles and causing him to stumble back in order to escape its grasp. Never before did the water seem so threatening, but now, without Achilles by his side, it sends a shiver of fear down his spine.

He turns to leave when he hears it.

_“Mortal.”_

The voice is sharp as the blade of a sword, bites at his skin like frost during a particularly cruel winter. Though Achilles never described her, he has no doubt whom it belongs to.

Slowly, his arms wound around his body, he turns to face the goddess.

The difference is startling. If Achilles is the sun, then Thetis is the night, all stars extinguished by her darkness. It's impossible to fathom that it was her who brought such light into the world, and for a moment Patroclus wonders whether he is mistaken.

Then she raises that icy voice of hers again, and all doubt is erased from his mind.

_“Stay away from him.”_

Her black eyes are fixed on him unblinking, and he thinks he can see flecks of gold in them. In her strange and intimidating way, she is beautiful. Patroclus is not sure what he expected - she is a goddess, after all. A goddess whose stone-cold gaze is directed at him as she waits for his answer.

When he opens his mouth to speak, no sound comes out. Her lips curve into a frown of disapproval, like him not defending himself has only confirmed her suspicions.

_"He does not need someone like you to distract him.”_

There's no doubt in his mind about the way she must see him, a mortal. Weak. Ordinary. Entirely unworthy of her son's affections. His heart twists uncomfortably inside his chest as he remembers the way Achilles ran from him, clearly having come to the same realization.

She disappears as quickly as she has come, the lingering scent of sea salt in the air the only sign that she was there in the first place. It takes a long time before Patroclus finds the strength to move.

For the first time in a small eternity, the walls of Troy make him feel safe rather than caged as he returns.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, hear me out. I'm only sticking to canon here, you can't blame me!  
> Also, on a more random note: I actually don't like the way Thetis is villainized in TSOA. I realize how it's useful for the plot but can we talk about what that woman had to endure? Can anyone actually blame her for being bitter? I don't think so. However, she /is/ very protective of her son in every version of the story, so if she seems a little bit rude in this chapter, that's the reason. She will get her redemption. I promise.


	7. Destiny

_Stay away from him._

When Patroclus dreams at night, it's no longer of golden hair and a smile bright as the sun; it's of skin paler than the moonlight and lips so red that they remind him of blood pouring from a fresh wound. The image of the goddess still haunts him days after their encounter: the way the air whipped around her like she herself was the cause of the storm, the sound of her voice, as thunderous as waves breaking against a cliff, free of even a trace of mercy.

What he remembers best, however, are her eyes - black embers piercing his very soul, only brightened by the golden sparks in them. The only contrast to her otherwise icy appearance, and the only thing about her that reminds him of Achilles.

_He does not need someone like you to distract him._

Thetis is a force he knows he stands no chance against. Beneath her cold demeanor, she is a raging fire, her flames blazing so bright that there is no escaping them. She is the untamed sea, and to her waves he is nothing but another grain of sand, easily washed away.

Patroclus has no doubt that she could destroy everything in her way if need be. He has even less doubt that she could destroy him.

He doesn't return to the beach for almost three weeks.

* * *

It is the heat that drives him back to the shore eventually.

Summer has finally chased away the last traces of spring and its gentle breezes, the sun burning down relentlessly on the city of Troy. Most days the air is completely motionless and the soldiers moan and curse when they need to leave for battle. Whether they like it or not, everything and everyone has been forced to slow down and Patroclus is grateful for it. Even the smallest movements feel like a burden, the slightest exertion drenching him in sweat, and all he can do during the day is spend as much time in the shade as possible.

The nights, however, are almost worse.

He tosses and turns on his pallet, the sheets sticking to his body uncomfortably, even the slightest touch of fabric against his skin torturing him. Between the heat, stuffy air and heavy feeling inside his chest, sleep seems unreachable.

When finally he gives in and slips from his room, the stars have already appeared in the sky and the usual silence has settled over the city. No one except for a few guards is out during this time and he has long learned not to stir their attention. Their eyes are focused on those approaching the walls – not those escaping them.

The sea is unnaturally still as he reaches it, yet it looks so inviting that he can almost hear it call his name. Regardless, he stops himself, his eyes scanning the surface for even the smallest movement.

Though he did everything she asked of him, the goddess' warning still echoes in his mind. But if there is one thing he has learned, it's that Thetis' rage is a storm, and right now there is not even a small gust of wind in the air, the waves shallow and calm. When after a few moments nothing has happened still, he dares to step inside. She's not there.

The water is not as cool as it was when Achilles pulled him into it for the first time, but in comparison to the heat it's pure bliss. With a contented smile, he allows himself to dive into the soothing depths, not making his way back up to the surface until his lungs start to burn from the lack of air. It is only when he has blinked the droplets out of his eyes that he realizes he is no longer alone.

For the longest moment, neither of them says anything. Then they both raise their voices at once.

"It was not my intention to ..."

"I wished for you to know that ..."

Patroclus laughs, the sound breathless and anxious as he bows his head to the other, willing him to continue.

Achilles, more than ever before, looks like a young boy as he opens his mouth to speak. His voice, usually so confident even while whispering words of uncertainty and doubt, is now quiet and careful and Patroclus thinks he can hear the softest quiver in it.

"I just wanted to ... I wished ..." Visibly frustrated with his sudden lack of eloquence, he shakes his head. "You were not here," is what he settles for.

"I did not think you would want to see me."

There's something in Achilles' eyes as he studies him, something that he has never seen there before. He can't pinpoint whether it is disbelief or regret, or both.

"I always want to see you."

The ache of being left behind is still nestled deeply inside Patroclus' heart but he feels some of it melt away at the other's words, even though he still does not understand.

 _You left,_ he wants to say. _You left me here like a fool._ But no matter how hard he tries, he cannot find his voice.

He doesn't have to. Once more it is as though Achilles can read his mind.

"Forgive me."

It's spoken so earnestly that he knows he can't do anything but comply. How can he disappoint him when bright green eyes are fixed on him in such a hopeful manner, when the other's hand is already reaching for his own? Without hesitation he takes it, and the wall between them seems to crumble.

The sapling of their affection that he almost drowned in his sorrow is filled with new life.

"I did not expect us to …" Achilles continues, but Patroclus interrupts him.

"Me neither.“ A pause. His heart beats wildly inside his chest. "Do you regret it?"

He watches as the other's lips curl into a hesitant smile that he can't help but match.

"Kissing you or leaving?"

"Both," he exhales.

"There is only one of those I would change."

He is so close that Patroclus can feel his breath tickling his skin. Once more, his world consists of sandalwood and pomegranate, of sunlight and sea salt, of honey and earth. Yet there's something bittersweet to the sensation.

"If you leave again ... I do not think I could bear it."

The words leave him in a whisper, his nerve endings tingling with the desire to lean in and close to distance. Everything inside of him longs to once more feel Achilles' lips against his own, to taste him against his tongue and feel his arms around him; but he is afraid, afraid of what it will mean if the other once more rejects him. He does not think his heart could handle it, another person leaving him behind. So much has been taken from him already – losing Achilles twice would break him.

„I won't leave,“ the other soothes his worries, his fingertips dancing across his skin in that playful manner of his. His hands are that of a musician as much as they are that of a fighter, skilled and elegant, and Patroclus can't help but lean into the touch.

„Do you swear it?“ he hears himself asking weakly.

„I swear it.“

* * *

He learns that the heat bothers Achilles not nearly as much everyone else. When he arrives in the evenings, sweat collecting at his brow, the other is already lounging in the sand, seemingly unbothered by the uncomfortably hot ground beneath him.

Every night, the first thing Patroclus does is plunge into the water, and most of the time Achilles ends up joining him. Secretly, he is glad for man's presence, well aware he is breaking the promise he made to the goddess – though at this point he wonders whether his lack of reply can actually be considered such.

Something tells him that the other does not know of his encounter with his mother, and he has the sneaking suspicion that Thetis would like to keep it that way. That, at least, they are in agreement about.

Later, when their bodies have cooled off and the sand no longer feels as scorching, they fall back into their normal routine and Patroclus' worries slowly begin to fade. All except for one.

„You never told me why,“ he states softly, taking in the sight of Achilles next to him.

The other just hums, continuing to draw against his skin. Patroclus smiles as his finger stills over a freckle.

„Vega,“ he informs him. „The brightest star in the constellation of the lyre.“

There is a small moment of silence before he continues, his voice full of melancholy.

„Every day I go out there not knowing whether I will return,“ Achilles breathes, each word carefully chosen. „My mother told me … she said that once I kill Hector, my own death will soon follow. With how much ground we have won lately, it will not be long now.“

Patroclus feels breathless for several reasons at once.

 _Hector_. It's beyond him how he did not think of it sooner. The prince of Troy is their best warrior, the only one who could possibly match _Aristos Achaion_ in battle. Yet, despite Andromache sharing her worries with him, he never allowed himself to imagine how a fight between the two would inevitably end.

„You must not kill Hector,“ he whispers before he can stop himself, and wonders whether it is out of fear for the man who has been like a brother to him for most of his life, or because he cannot bear the thought of Achilles' lifeless body. Maybe, he thinks with an aching heart, it is both.

Achilles, however, just smiles that smile of his again, the one that says _I wish I could.  
_The one that says _I cannot._

Patroclus clenches his jaw, his head spinning as he tries to think of a way out.

If there is one thing he knows, it's that once the other has made up his mind about something, there is no changing it. How can he blame him? This is what he was prepared for his whole life, and it is hard to stray from a path already laid out for you.

 _Hector_ , however, does not know about the prophecy. _Hector_ has likely not heard about his own fate yet. _Hector_ is his only chance. If only he will be able to keep him from facing Achilles …

„If he lives, you will live,“ he realizes, hope rising inside his chest.

„Sooner or later I will have to fight him.“

„You do not know that. Maybe we can trick the Fates.“ Patroclus is eager now, frantic to put his plan to work.

 _He_ can save Achilles. _He_ has the power to change his destiny. All it will take is a little bit of convincing.

„Patroclus ...“

The sound of his name pulls him from his thoughts.

 _Pa-tro-clus._ Each syllable, spoken like a prayer.

„I do not have a future. It would not be fair to take yours from you.“

When he meets the other's gaze, his own eyes are soft.

„There is nothing you are taking from me,“ he whispers and every word is genuine. „All you do is give.“

And maybe, just maybe, there is a way in which he can return the favor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something's coming, y'all. Something's coming.


	8. Deliverance

_He can save Achilles.  
_ _He can save Hector._

He clings to this new hope like a lifeline, and though realistically he knows that it won't be as easy as he wishes, it is all he has. The possibility of finding a way to change the future leaves his heart just a little bit lighter, has him falling asleep with a smile on his lips at night. For the first time in weeks, his sleep is deep and blissfully dreamless.

The sun is barely up when he rises again, eager to put his plan to action. Hastily he pulls on his chiton and makes his way along the hall with quick steps.

Once upon a time he'd occupied a room closer to the princes' chambers – a small space, shared with the rest of Priam's foster sons, until one by one they'd taken a wife and he was left alone with too many beds to remind him of his loneliness. He didn't complain when one day they moved him closer to the servants' quarters. It was where he spent most of his time anyway, keeping the kitchen staff company and learning about the many different herbs. Useful information, he thinks now with a smile, not just for cooking but also for healing.

He's in such high spirits when finally he reaches Hector's rooms that Andromache raises her brows at him, a soft laugh tumbling from her lips.

It's a rare sound these days, and Patroclus' expression falters just a little as he observes the dark circles under her eyes, the lines of worry on her otherwise flawless complexion. The war is leaving its marks on all of them, he realizes, and carefully bows his head.

"I apologize for disturbing you."

She laughs again, the same tired huff of air, genuine but dimmed by sorrow.

"None of that. What brings you here so early? And in such a good mood, too," she inquires.

For a brief moment, he is tempted to tell her everything, to share the exact reason for his joy. He longs to speak of his nights on the beach, of the way his heart feels like it has grown too big for his chest, but at the last moment he holds himself back.

"I meant to speak to your husband," he states softly instead. "About Achilles."

As sweet as the name tastes on his tongue, he can see it turn bitter on Andromache's. Confusion laces into her gaze – why is he smiling when the topic at hand is one of such sorrow?

"He left already to instruct the men," she informs him. "But please, if there is anything you know …"

He takes pity on her, the tremor in her voice, the nervous stutter of her heart. It's a feeling that he, too, has grown accustomed to - the curse of having to sit and wait. Maybe he can give her at least this small bit of relief.

"You cannot tell anyone but him," he pleads quietly, his gaze flickering down the hall. Only when he finds it empty does he continue.

"There is a prophecy, made by the gods. Hector must not face Achilles in battle or else ..."

His mouth feels dry as he shakes his head. How can he tell her about the death of her husband, the father of her child? How can he possibly paint the picture of a future this dark? Yet he knows it is what he has to do, if only to make sure it does not come true.

"He will not defeat him," he finally settles for. "If you want him to live, I'm begging you, keep him from fighting against him."

Andromache looks at him for a long moment, her face an ocean of emotions.

"How do you know all this?"

"I cannot tell you," Patroclus whispers. "But Hector was like a brother to me when I no longer had family of my own, and I do not want to see him perish in a war that he himself condemns. You deserve to spend your life with your husband by your side, and your son should grow up to know his father. He stands no chance against Achilles, the Fates have foretold it."

Carefully, he takes her hands into his own.

"I know he will hear you out if you ask this of him. Please promise me you will try. We can save him, Andromache."

Hesitant hope flashes in Andromache's eyes but not a single word leaves her lips until a cry of "Mama" sounds from the door left ajar behind her. Her head turns to look at her child, and Patroclus can see the answer in her expression even before she opens her mouth to speak.

"I will speak to him."

Little Astyanax, he thinks, woke at just the right time.

* * *

With every passing day, the Greeks force the Trojan army further back towards the walls of the city.

Patroclus barely gets a moment of rest as he rushes from cot to cot, treating arrow wounds and broken bones and losing track of how many men fall victim to their sufferings. It has become a disturbing routine, closing the lids over empty eyes, calling for someone to take the bodies away.

With every life they lose, his heart grows a little heavier inside his chest again. Maybe he can keep two men from death, but who will save all the others? Are their lives worth anything less simply because he does not know them?

He's aware that this is a burden too heavy for him to carry alone, that it's not up to him to stop this war, and yet every time he watches the light fade from another face he feels a wave of guilt wash over him.

When will it finally end?

* * *

The only one able to take his mind off the situation - and he, too, is aware of the irony of it - is Achilles.

Achilles, who spins stories of olive trees and summer days for him. Achilles, whose words create images of golden sunsets by the sea and starlit nights on mountaintops. Achilles, who looks at him as though the whole world revolves around him. Achilles, who seems to sense his sorrow but does not push him to speak of it, instead offering him silent comfort.

He takes him up the rocks one night, swift-footed and sure in his steps while Patroclus struggles to keep up. But Achilles' hand is wrapped tight around his own, steadying him whenever he threatens to slip, and when finally they reach the top, it's all worth it.

If he thought the sea looked wide from the beach, from up there it seems endless. The dark surface stretches on and on until it becomes one with the horizon, the only movement that of the moonlit waves.

"It's beautiful," Patroclus exclaims and turns his head to face the man by his side.

"It is."

Yet Achilles' eyes are not fixed on the view - instead, they study him. The intensity of it causes the breath to catch in his throat, makes his heart stutter like it does so often around the other. The longing buried deep inside his chest flames up like a wildfire and when their gazes lock, he can see it reflected in Achilles' expression.

Their lips meet in a whirlwind of emotion and this time neither of them pulls away.

"Come with me," the other whispers after what feels like a small eternity, his hands reaching up to cradle his face in their touch.

Patroclus' voice seems to fail him, so he simply nods, allows Achilles to guide him all the way back down, along the beach and towards where he can see the dim light of fires shining in the distance. It is only then that he truly realizes where he is taking him and he almost stops, but then the other's hand squeezes his own and his feet continue to move on their own accord.

His heart is beating so fast by the time they reach the camp that he thinks it will jump right out of his chest. Achilles, on the other hand, is the epitome of tranquility as he closes the tent flaps behind them and pulls him into his arms.

"You've forgiven me," he breathes and Patroclus, in all his nervousness, laughs.

"There was nothing to forgive."

Once more their lips meet and with every kiss a little bit of his worry seems to fade. The camp outside seems miles away, the tent warm and comfortable, and when the other steers them towards his pallet, he follows him without hesitation.

Achilles' hands are ceaseless as they begin to map out his body, not leaving a single patch of skin untouched. Sometimes, as if to show particular appreciation, his fingertips linger a moment longer - brush his collarbone twice instead of once, trace circles against his stomach - before continuing their way down and leaving Patroclus all the more breathless.

Heat rises high on his cheeks as the caresses grow bolder. He bends to the other's fingertips like the strings of the lyre when he plays it, his gasps and moans singing Achilles' praises. As he melts into every brush of his hands, he wonders whether he was made for this purpose alone, was shaped only to be touched by him, much like the ashen spear he carries into battle.

"Patroclus," the other whispers and wipes every thought from his mind.

The way their bodies curve against each other is that of two parts of a whole, finally reunited. They're no longer two separate beings - no longer warrior and healer, no longer Greek and Trojan, no longer demigod and mortal. Instead, they breathe the same air between their lips, share the same warmth, and Patroclus is sure that even their hearts have become one, beating in sync, strong as ever.

It's a feeling unlike anything he has ever experienced before and he can't get enough of it.

His fingertips start a journey of their own, gently grazing the other's brows, his aristocratic nose, the sharp line of his jaw. He laughs when Achilles' lips curl into a smile beneath his touch, when they chase after his hand to press an appreciative kiss to it, playful in a way that is reserved only for him.

He tries to commit even the smallest detail to memory. There is not a single thing he wants to forget.

The way the other's hair frames his face, wild like a lion's mane. The way his eyes sparkle in the dim light of the hearth, warm and inviting. How his chest moves against his own with every intake of air. The slight tension in his shoulders from days spent on the battlefield. His strong back, arching into his every touch. His hands, wandering, wandering.

When Achilles' weight settles on top of him, the muscles shifting in his thighs as he tangles their legs, Patroclus closes his eyes and relishes in the feeling.

All his life he has been an observer, cautious of his surroundings, of every small movement around him. He likes to know what is going to happen, likes to be prepared, but right then all he wants to do is surrender himself to Achilles entirely.

No matter what his next move will be, he knows he will welcome it, his limbs trembling in anticipation of the other's touch. Beneath his fingertips, he can feel him shiver just the same.

* * *

"Philtatos," Achilles whispers later when they're side by side, their bodies spent and their hearts full. His lips brush against his temple lazily as Patroclus rests his head against his chest, listening as his breathing steadies.

_Philtatos. Most beloved._

Not even the pang of guilt inside of him can wipe away the joy he feels just lying there next to the other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I told you something was coming. Who would've thought it would be these two.


	9. Monsters and Men

“How come I never see you around the camp during the day?” Achilles asks him one night, and something twists uncomfortably in Patroclus' stomach.

His visits to the other's tent have become a regular occurrence, as well as a welcome distraction. Since speaking to Andromache, he has heard neither from her nor from Hector, a fact that leaves him nervous at best, completely panicked at worst.

“There are many men fighting in this war. Surely you do not spend your time memorizing all of their faces,” he tries to joke, but his voice comes out too weak to carry over any of the intended humor.

How much longer will he be able to hide his alliance to Troy?

Every time he sees the other, his heart is torn between overwhelming joy and utter despair. It must be visible on his face, he thinks most days, but then Achilles kisses him like there is not a single thing they need to worry about and he forgets what was tormenting him in the first place.

It is only when they part in the early hours of the morning that the panic returns with full force, knocking all air out of his lungs as he lies on his own pallet, alone.

What will happen if his plan doesn't work, if Hector disregards his advice?  
Can he tell Achilles, try to change his mind again by confronting him with the truth?  
What will the other do when he finds out who he really is?

To him, Achilles has never been anything but kind. When he looks at him, there is understanding in his eyes; when he touches him it is with the utmost care. Often he finds himself perplexed at how the same hands that have ended so many lives can be so incredibly gentle when they reach for him, how the same voice that whispers words sweet as honey into his ear can produce a battle cry that will make even the most fearless warrior shiver.

He has heard many stories of what it's like to be Achilles' enemy. It is not a position he wants to find himself in.

In theory, he is aware that it will be much worse if the other discovers the truth by himself, but there is a foolish part of him that hopes he will be able to hide it forever. _Maybe once the war is over_ , he tells himself before remembering the prophecy. Will there even be an _after_ for them?

“It must be a long way back to your own tent if you have to leave so early every morning,” the other pulls him from his thoughts, and his tone makes it clear that tonight he will not get away with his usual, vague replies.

Swallowing thickly, Patroclus shakes his head. This is a question he has been prepared for, at least.

“There will be talk among your men if they see me leave.”

“So let them talk,” comes the immediate reply, causing him to sigh.

“It will hurt your reputation. They expect you to focus on the war, not ...”

“Not what?”

“Pleasure,” he grits out, frustration slowly lacing into his voice. He knows it's not fair, but between his fear of being found out and his general discontent with the whole situation, his temper often gets the better of him these days.

He is almost relieved when his words are answered by a laugh, Achilles' golden hair tickling his skin as the other leans over him.

“You act as though they're pure and innocent as lambs. Don't you see the way they gape at the servant girls?”

Slaves, is what he means, and Patroclus cringes visibly. Before the war these women were free, spending peaceful lives in their villages. Now their fathers, their brothers, their husbands and sons are dead – and they entirely at their captors' mercy. Achilles seems to sense his discomfort because he continues.

“Have you never heard their crude jokes? I think they can handle their leader sharing his bed with someone else.”

Patroclus knows there is nothing more he can say, nothing that will change the other's mind, and so he simply reaches for his hand, pressing a gentle kiss to his knuckles.

“Just allow me to be in control of this?” he requests and when their gazes lock, he knows that he has won.

_For now._

* * *

It does not get any easier.

With every passing day, he feels more like a prisoner of his own situation, the truth always at the tip of his tongue, yet his lips won't part to set it free. He knows that Achilles, too, feels that something is wrong, the time they spend together no longer free of all burden.

“Who are you?”

His blood runs cold in his veins at the question, and the only thing that keeps him from running is the feeling of the other's fingertips trailing along his chest, ever so gentle.

“What?”

Achilles shifts to face him, head tilted to the side. His expression is contemplative but not unkind. _He does not know_ , he thinks in relief.

“Do you not think it strange? I know your body like my own, every mark and every scar. I know about the days of your childhood, your father and your mother. I know how your eyes light up when you're happy and how they dim when you're lost in thought. But I do not know _you._ ”

There is something in his expression as he says it, as though the realization genuinely upsets him. Patroclus reaches out to caress his cheek, thumb brushing over the soft skin.

_He is not used to not getting what he wants_ , he reminds himself, willing his frustration away.

“You know all that matters.”

“And yet it feels like I don't know anything at all.”

Inside his chest, his heart is aching. Achilles has bared everything to him, has confided in him like he has in no one else, all while he is unable to offer him the same kind of vulnerability.

“Look at me,” Patroclus pleads, shifting closer.

Their bodies curve against each other in that way he has come to cherish, the other's heartbeat reverberating inside his own chest, slow and rhythmic.

“I'm yours, every part of me. Those you know and those you have yet to discover.”

He knows it is not what the other wants to hear, yet it is all he can give him. The fear for his life is no longer what stops him from telling the truth – he would gladly take that risk only to free himself of the guilt that threatens to drown him. No, the possibility of his own death seems almost preferable to destroying what they have so carefully built between them. He does not think he could bear to see the sorrow in Achilles' eyes upon discovering his deceit.

As he brushes his lips to the other's, there is one thing that becomes painfully clear to him.

_Love_ is much more than just a word.

* * *

When he wakes that morning, everything is too bright and too loud.

For a few long moments, he blinks up at the ceiling of his room in confusion, until he realizes it is not the ceiling at all but the roof of a tent, golden sunlight filtering through the fabric.

Somewhere next to him, only a few steps away, something rattles, the noise finally pulling him from his stupor. His heart beats in his throat as he sits up.

“You're awake.”

Achilles' voice sounds _entirely_ too cheerful, and had he not been so shocked, Patroclus would have scolded him for his smug grin.

“I fell asleep,” he finally realizes in horror. “Why did you not wake me?”

“You looked so peaceful,” Achilles shrugs, and his smirk widens even further, entirely unaware of the panic rising in his lover's chest. “I wanted to enjoy the view a little longer.”

“I should have left hours ago!”

Patroclus scrambles to get up, kicking off the sheets tangled around his legs and reaching for his tunic. Before he can grab it, however, a strong hand stops him. He has not even heard him move.

“I'm glad you did not,” Achilles informs him and finally Patroclus allows himself a moment to take in the sight of him.

It's no wonder, he thinks, that the Greeks admire and the Trojans fear him. The other looks positively god-like in his armor, his golden curls pulled back with a strap of leather to keep them from falling into his eyes. He looks beautiful, and intimidating, and for a brief moment Patroclus' breath catches in his throat.

It's enough to make Achilles laugh again.

“Will you help me get ready?”

The request is gentle as he takes his hand and pulls him to his feet before handing his tunic to him. Exhaling a small breath, Patroclus pulls it on.

“Of course.”

He knows he should not. He does it anyway, all the while forcing himself not to think about whose blood will be staining this very same armor when Achilles returns. His fingers are positively trembling as he closes the last clasp, and he knows that the other notices it, too.

“What's wrong?”, he asks, in the same voice that whispered confessions of love to him just hours ago. The same voice that will turn from honey to iron on the battlefield.

“I do not want you to go,” Patroclus admits and it's the truth, though for more reasons than just one.

A sigh passes Achilles' lips but the smile remains on his face regardless.

“I have to. But ...how about something to take your mind off it?”

He seems genuinely proud of whatever he has come up with, and Patroclus can't help but feel curious.

Besides, what can he do? He is already stuck in the camp - there is no way he can return home during the day, not when all eyes are fixed on that precious space in front of the walls of Troy – and he knows he will probably lose his mind if he just sits there and waits. Briefly, the image of Andromache flashes before his eyes, the woman who has to endure that very fate every single day, fearing for her husband's life.

“There is this girl ...” Achilles continues, head tilted to the side in thought. “I claimed her as my prize.”

Patroclus blinks at him. He knows this is a common enough practice during war, but still he finds himself disappointed that the other takes part in it.

“Why did you take her?” he snaps before he can stop himself.

This, however, seems to amuse Achilles.

“Would you rather have Agamemnon take her?”

His voice is challenging and though he has never met the king, Patroclus knows that the correct answer is no.

“What about her, then?” he asks reluctantly instead.

“She was brought here more than a week ago and has not left the tent once. I tried, trust me, but she won't even speak. Maybe you will be more successful.”

Achilles' hand reaches up to cup his cheek, slowly drawing him in for a kiss.

“Your looks betray your personality. Just like me, she won't be able to resist you.”

All he does is laugh when Patroclus places the helmet a little too roughly on his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I'm just going to draw this out forever ... sigh. Either way, thank you so much for reading and please let me know what you think! If you want to chat, hit me up on tumblr @glimmerofgold


	10. Briseis

Laughs. Sighs. Curses. Footsteps.  
The dull thud of a spear hitting the ground.  
The cry of a child in the distance.

The sounds of the Greek camp, Patroclus realizes, are not all that different from those of Troy. Rustling and whispering, yelled commands and muffled protests. The noises have deeply ingrained themselves in his memory, always the same, over and over again, every single day. He can almost hear them in his mind now, a faint echo of what is happening around him. Two armies preparing themselves for another day of spilled blood.

Even once Achilles has left, it takes him a long time to set foot outside the tent.

Perhaps the men don't notice him, perhaps they simply don't care. No one pays particular attention to him as he weaves his way through the camp, and he is glad for it. Nonetheless, his heart leaps inside his chest every time someone steps a little too close to him, its rate only going back to normal once he realizes their attention rests elsewhere.

He feels like a wolf in sheep's clothing – or is it the other way around? Maybe it is him who is the prey, surrounded on all sides but undiscovered so far. Will they be able to smell his fear?

Swallowing thickly, he rushes to locate the right tent and slips inside. A quiet voice inside his head scolds him for it, reminds him that it is probably not the smartest idea to move so carelessly, but right then all he seeks is the comfort of a confined space.

Indeed, the tent is much smaller than his lover's, and almost empty. In the dim light, it takes him a moment to spot the figure crouched in the far back of it.

She looks miserable - legs tucked close to her body in an attempt to make herself as small as possible, dark circles under her eyes betraying the tears she has undoubtedly shed. Patroclus' heart aches for her as he takes in the bruises scattered along the side of her face.

He knew when he awoke that morning that even just one day in the Greek camp would change the way he sees Achilles. It is only in that moment that he realizes just how right he was.

The young woman flinches away from him, withdrawing even more so into her corner. The crack inside his heart broadens.

"Don't be scared," he says carefully, but all she does is stare up at him with her large brown eyes, filled to the brim with fear. "I will not hurt you."

"Please."

The word falls from her lips so quietly that he almost misses it. But it's there, and it's a step into the right direction - albeit a small one – so he tries again.

"You are safe. I promise."

It only dawns on him then why she looks at him the way she does – as though he dragged her there himself, as though he could end her life with a snap of his finger. He's a man in a camp full of soldiers, the same ones that have destroyed her home. She thinks he's Greek, a realization that almost causes him to laugh. Instead, he exhales a breath of relief. At least part of this he can fix.

"My name is Patroclus," he informs her in soft Anatolian this time. Years of living in Troy have taught him well, and though Greek still comes to him more easily, he knows enough.

At the sound of the familiar language, she perks up. Distrust, however, is still written all over her face, and some of it seeps into his own mind as well.

Is this a trap? Does Achilles suspect what he is hiding? Did he send him there on purpose, to test how quickly he will slip up?

"Briseis."

A soft voice pulls him from his thoughts, and he scolds himself for having them in the first place. Though he has no reason to, Achilles has decided to trust him – and it is that very fact that is the source of his guilt.

Right now, though, he has different things to worry about.

Slowly, he sits down across from the girl, almost like he would with a small child. Though he is not a threat, he knows it will take a lot of time and effort until she understands this as well. Time that he is willing to give.

"You cannot starve yourself, Briseis. Achilles said -"

Immediately he realizes that this name is one he should not have brought up, for the moment it leaves his lips, she draws back once more.

"He will not harm you," he is quick to add, but he knows she will not believe it.

Achilles left her there alone for days; she must wonder what else the other is capable of. It's not secret what these men usually do to their prizes. She is likely just trying to make peace with her fate.  
Quickly, he shakes his head to himself. No, he will not allow his mind to go there.

"I can see you are not well. You need to eat.”

She seems to consider this, because after a moment of silence, she nods.

"Good," he exhales and scoots a little closer, careful not to startle her. "Your face ... you are hurt. Can I …?”

When he touches her, she flinches again, but does not pull away. It does little to soothe his mind - the only reason she does not fight him is because of what she thinks will happen to her if she tries.

"Where are you from?"

If years of taking care of the sick and wounded have taught him anything, it's that distraction is half the trick. Often, he will ask the men to tell him about their families, the children they return to every night, the wives they kiss goodbye in the mornings. He knows little about Briseis, but maybe thinking about her home will bring her some comfort as well.

Carefully, his fingertips brush against her cheekbone, feeling for wounds worse than just the surface bruises. A wave of relief washes over him as he finds none.

Then he meets her gaze, and his heart sinks.

"They killed them. They killed all of them."

She sounds broken as she says it, but not a single tear falls. Maybe she has none left to shed. Even though he has nothing to do with what happened to her, Patroclus feels sick with guilt.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, slowly lowering his hand. It's not enough - nothing will ever be enough, but this is the only comfort he can give her.

There is a long stretch of silence, neither of them speaking nor moving, before finally he finds his voice again.

"They would not want you to give up."

He moves his hand until it rests, palm open, between them - a silent offer. Even though she does not take it, she also doesn't draw away.

"Sooner or later, the war will end,” he continues, encouraged by the spark of hope in her eyes.

“The people of Troy …" His heart jumps as he glances over his shoulder and lowers his voice to barely a whisper. "When the day comes, they will offer you shelter. Never forget that not far from here, there are people who are on your side."

* * *

He doesn't explain it to her and she does not ask. But from then on, there seems to be a mutual understanding between them that was not there before. They are not enemies – far from it – and both of them are aware of it despite all their cautiousness.

That evening, after hours of talking to Briseis reassuringly and even braving the camp to find her something to eat, he returns to Achilles' tent. The man is already there, taking off his armor, and Patroclus swallows thickly at the sight. What was golden before is now stained red.

He thinks of a sea of poppies. Of red, red, red coloring the earth. He thinks of the expression on Clysonymus' face.

This is different from the wounds he is taking care of every day. This is no sign of hard-earned survival – it's the sign of death.

All of a sudden he feels so sick that he has to sit down, his legs no longer able to support him. Achilles, of course, notices. He's by his side so quickly that Patroclus does not even see him move until he feels his touch. The metallic scent of blood washes over him, but still he forces himself to look up.

It's not his blood, of course it isn't. He tells himself he should be glad for it, be grateful that Achilles is unharmed, but all he feels is grief. How many lives did he take this time?

“What haunts you so?”

The other's voice is ever so gentle, as it always is when directed at him. For a long moment, the question lingers between them, until Patroclus finally decides to answer it, to finally share at least a little bit of his sorrow.

“The past,” he whispers, “There are things I have not told you about the past. You said you want to know all of me but ...”

“I stand by it.”

Achilles pulls him closer, and suddenly the words fall from his lips all at once. He tells him everything; tells him of the small, weak prince that he used to be; tells him of the other boys taunting him for it. He tells him about a pair of dice, gifted to him by a merchant in the harbor. He tells him about fear and anger and the sound of bone against stone.

“I killed a boy,” he repeats, over and over again as though saying it will somehow wash him free of his sin. All it does is make him feel worse.

“You did not mean to. Why did you not tell them that it was an accident? That he threatened you? Surely they would have forgiven a prince for defending himself.”

It's the first time Patroclus allows himself to think about it that way. Though Achilles' questions are reasonable, he realizes he has no answers to them. Would it have made a difference?

“His blood would still be on my hands,” he settles for after a moment. “He would still be dead.”

He's not sure the other understands. That to him the reason for his crime does not matter. That he made a choice that day, and he has to live with it for the rest of his life. That even if he was only trying to protect himself, he should have been aware of the risks.

It's ironic, he thinks, how easy it is to forgive Achilles for taking dozens of lives every day, when he cannot even forgive himself for ending one.

As the other takes his hands into his own and brings them to his lips, he finally glances up.

“Your hands,” Achilles states calmly, “have saved many a man from finding death. They have soothed and healed. They held me together when I felt as though I was falling apart.” He smiles lightly. “They used to be those of a boy who endured too much, and now they belong to a man who has made good for his mistakes a hundred times over. They're not the hands of a killer.”

His voice is so earnest, so knowing, that Patroclus almost believes him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: Patroclus wondering whether he can accept the divine, coldblooded part of Achilles in order to be with the human ray of sunshine he loves - and damn near losing his mind. It's rough, y'all.
> 
> Updates will probably be slow for a while because I'm busy as hell. I'll still try to share with you as much as possible, though!


	11. Light and Darkness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew ... it's been a moment. Real life has been stressing me out so much that I was not able to write down a single word up until now, so this chapter is a little on the shorter side and more of a filler than anything. We'll be back to our regularly scheduled programming once my exams are done and I can actually focus again. And let me tell you, I have a lot planned for this story!

Is this what his days could be like? As he walks the grounds of the Greek camp more and more often, he cannot help but wonder.

It's easier now to pass the men, meet their eyes and not flinch with fear. Instead, friendly smiles are directed at him when he leaves Achilles' tent to go see Briseis, and he knows the names of those who offer them. Some of them he has spoken to, some seen only in passing, but most seem to have accepted him as one of their own.

The Greeks are not all monsters, and it becomes increasingly more difficult to blindly pledge his loyalty to just one side or the other. These men, just like the Trojans, have wives and children they wish to return to. If the swearing is anything to go by, they're as sick of the war as he is.

And so he melts in perfectly.

It's a month into this game of sneaking back and forth that he begins to feel more and more reluctant to leave Achilles' side. He spends as many days as possible at the camp, as many as he can get away with without questions being asked. To his relief, no one really seems to notice his absence back at home. Andromache is always needed here or there, constantly rushing from room to room without a minute to spare for him, and Hector he has not seen for weeks. The Trojans are increasingly struggling to stand their ground, the fighting dragging on until it has grown to dark outside to see clearly, and he is sure that he is the last thing anyone is worried about.

Likewise, the question he asked so many weeks ago remains unanswered. Silently, he wonders whether the prince has even considered his request. He is just an exile, after all, not a brother in blood or status - his word is not worth much in the world they live in, and yet he refuses to give up hope. If not him, maybe the man's wive can convince him.

* * *

Surprisingly, it is Achilles who takes some of the weight off his shoulders.

It is a night like any other, his lover's armor abandoned in the far corner of the tent. He's oddly quiet, but Patroclus does not think much of it. There are days when the words fall from Achilles' lips like waterfalls, and there are ones when he does not make a single sound. No matter what, his eyes usually tell him all he needs to know.

Tonight, they are thoughtful, but there is a determination burning in them that should not be there after hours of physical exhaustion. Any normal man would have sought out the sweet oblivion of sleep the moment he returned, but not so Achilles. Achilles is studying him, head tilted to the side as his fingertips trace the line of his collarbone.

“I thought about what you said,” he says, and Patroclus gazes up at him with a mocking smile.

“I have said many a thing. You will need to be a little more specific.”

“You are becoming more and more insolent. Do you not know you are talking to _Aristos Achaion_ , the best of the Greeks? I am a prince, son of a goddess. I will be a hero, and you shall not-”

He stops with a laugh as Patroclus tackles him to the furs on the ground.

“You are a brat, that's what you are. Someone needs to bring you back down to earth.”

While he makes sure to remind Achilles of his human side often, he knows it is all in good fun. Considering the fact that he has been showered with compliments for all his life, the other is surprisingly immune to the flattery. The confidence he radiates is not pretentious, and rather than letting the words get to his head, he often jokes about them the moment they're back at the tent.

“I would argue you are rather good at that. You currently have me pinned to it, after all.”

Patroclus rolls his eyes as the other smirks up at him.

“We both know that if you actually tried, I would not be able to keep you there for even a moment,” he laments, but can't help a smile of his own. It would be foolish to compare his strength to Achilles' and he is not going to start doing it now. Instead, he shakes his head.

“I thought you have something to tell me?”

Beneath him, his lover hums, pushing at him just enough to be able to sit up. Regardless, he never loses his hold on him.

“I do. I considered what you said … about me not facing Hector.”

Patroclus' heart stutters inside his chest at the mention of the prince's name, but he quickly schools his features.

“Oh?” he exhales, before going silent again, willing the other to continue.

The thoughtfulness returns to Achilles' face.

“I will try,” he finally states, glancing up to meet his gaze. “I will stay away from him for as long as possible. Now I can't promise you forever, but ...”

He does not get to finish, for in that moment Patroclus tackles him for the second time that night, this time to cover his face in kisses. The relief that floods him is of a kind which he could not put into words even if he tried. All he feels is joy and an overwhelming sense of gratefulness as he pressed his lips to Achilles' skin over and over again.

Though perfectly able to, the man does not pull away. Instead, he laughs and returns as many of the kisses as he can.

* * *

The days feel brighter after that night, and Patroclus can't help but think that it is because of Achilles and no one else. It's almost as though the man himself radiates sunlight, allowing him to bask in his golden warmth every moment he spends by his side, like an endless summer.

For a person who never experienced the love of another before, he knows he should be overwhelmed by it, but for some reason he is not. When Achilles holds him in his arms, it feels like he was made to rest there. When they talk, it feels like they have known each other all their lives. When they kiss, there is nowhere else he would rather be.

It's that same feeling that washed over him the first time their bodies became one – that this is merely a reunion, two parts of a whole finally joined together again.

He's not sure whether Achilles truly understands the extent of his feelings, for he finds himself unable to put it into words. How can he describe to the other that he is half of his soul, that he no longer carries his heart within his own chest but has given it to him wholly? How can he explain that, while everything about their love should feel wrong, there is nothing that has ever felt more right to him?

How can he tell him all this when he cannot even tell him who he truly is?

It is not often that he allows himself to linger on the thought. Most days he spends in blissful ignorance of their situation, of how one wrong word could destroy everything. He does not want to think of his betrayal, does not want to imagine Achilles' expression upon finding out, and so he locks the worries away somewhere far back in his head.

There is distraction enough. On the days he spends in Troy, his mind is focused on healing, on patching up even the worst of wounds. During his time in the Greek camp, while Achilles is needed on the battlefield, it is Briseis who demands his attention.

For all the distrust that had lingered between them in the beginning, she had been quick to warm up to him when his visits became more frequent. Now, when he visits her, she greets him with an embrace and a report of everything he has missed while gone. In return, he shares small snippets of his own life with her, some things he has not even dared to bring up to his lover out of fear that his secret could be discovered.

He tells her about his life as an exile, though he makes sure to never mention any names or locations. She coos and squeezes his hand as he recounts the many days he spent alone at the dinner table while the other boys laughed and joked with each other. He brings up the kindness of one prince in particular, older than him and more responsible than his siblings, but the name Hector never leaves his lips. The more he shares with her, the more he wishes the could speak the whole truth, but he knows better than to act so carelessly.

He teaches her Greek and it turns out she is a fast learner, for after only a week she already knows how to ask for the things she needs. She leaves her tent more often then and returns with stories of the other captured women. Soon, they too join their lessons, and Patroclus delights in the way the smiles slowly return to their faces.

Blinded by his joy, he asks Briseis to join him and Achilles for dinner one night. A plan, he soon realizes, that he did not quite think through.

The moment they step into the tent and she lays eyes on the other man, her expression hardens. She is fierce, Patroclus has learned that much, but he can see the fear beneath the surface of her face made of stone. In his adoration for both of them, he forgot the reason for her presence.

Achilles' face is neutral as she glares at him, but suddenly the air around them feels a little colder. Maybe if he made an effort, showed her that he means no harm, they could go from there – but it quickly becomes evident that these hopes will not come true. There's no regret in the other's expression, and his lack of reaction sends a chill down Patroclus' spine. It seems that Achilles' vulnerability in reserved only for him – and along with it his kindness.

Quickly, he takes Briseis' hand and guides her back to her own tent, where he tries to distract her with more stories as they share their bread and cheese.

He never repeats his mistake after that, always making sure to keep Achilles from her sight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has stuck around so far, I love hearing from you!  
> For anyone who's interested, there's a song that I think goes quite well with Achilles' and Patroclus' relationship (and that has definitely inspired some parts of this chapter and story in general). It's called "Light" by Sleeping At Last and I think it describes beautifully the extent of their love for each other as they decide to endure everything the world throws at them side by side.


	12. Hubris

The weeks pass peacefully - as much as is possible during a war. Now that he knows Achilles won't face Hector if given the choice, he is not nearly as worried to see him sneak from the tent in the morning.

The other rarely wakes him before he leaves, and Patroclus is glad for it. It allows him to ignore the fact that he will spend his day shedding the blood of those men he just patched up again back in Troy. It's a gruesome thought and it does nothing for his conscience, so he pushes it to the far back of his mind where it lingers, dark and threatening.

On the days when he cannot seem to escape it, Briseis is his rock amid the wild ocean. As he sits there and listens her speak frantically, watches her laugh and the way the light returns to her eyes, he realizes she is the best friend he has ever had.

Never before has he shared so much of himself with another person - not even Achilles, though he wishes he could. But while the other would push and ask until he'd spill the rest his secrets once he has started, Briseis only gives him that knowing smile of hers and leaves the choice to him.

Though each in their own way, both of them show him more trust than he ever expected, likely more than he deserves.

Achilles loves him - for it is love that is shining in his eyes whenever he looks at him - despite the lack of knowledge. Out of all the people in the camp, he chose him to confide in, allowed him to look past his unchanging mask. Where others see either a hero or a monster, Patroclus sees a man, any trace of vulnerability securely hidden beneath the surface. When he touches him, it's with hands gentle enough to bring it out in him, as though only he was blessed with the gift of making Aristos Achaion human.

For Briseis, on the other hand, trust did not come naturally. He can't blame her. After everything that happened, after watching her family being taken from her and her home being burned to the ground, he can only imagine the repulsion she must have felt the first time he visited her. Then, he was just another Greek in her eyes, lover of the very man who led the raid that took everything from her. But nonetheless, she offered him patience, allowed him to show his true colors and prove to her that he means no harm. Now she reaches for his hand when seeking support, now she hugs him goodnight, now she kisses his cheek in gratitude.

Most of the time he wishes he could stay forever. When the thought first formed in his mind it startled him, but the longer he stays, the more sense it makes to him. Troy is his home - but the two persons he loves most reside outside its walls.

The only thing that leads him back time and time again is his sense of guilt. When he had nothing, the Trojans offered him a home and it's a debt he has only just begun to repay.

* * *

"I am not fighting for him any longer."

As Achilles paces the length of the tent, restless as a beast held captive, there is only one thing on Patroclus mind: Every blessing comes at a cost. He is not nearly naive enough to forget about that.

The day he dared to stand up for himself, to demand respect for the first time, was the day he became a murderer. When he was sent away as an exile, King Priam did not take him in out of sheer benevolence. Riches and admiration were offered to him in exchange for his favor, and still he feels like he owes him. Even love Patroclus paid for, for it turned him into a traitor of both his people and his Achilles.

He knows that nothing is for free - but for a brief moment he allows himself to hope. Hope that this is the one kindness that life will offer him. Hope that the gods made it so, that they chose to spare his lover's life in their own twisted way. That the Fates gifted them more time.

He wants to throw his arms around the other and cry out with joy, wants to kiss him senseless and bathe in this feeling of hope. But he knows better, and his chest tightens with fear as he listens to Achilles.

"How dare he disrespect me like that. I will show him how well he does in this war without his best warrior to lead the army," the prince exclaims yet again, an edge to his voice that he has never heard before.

Not misery, not fear, not even anger. It's pride - loud and dangerous and growing the more it is threatened. _Hubris,_ their people call it, and Patroclus suddenly feels dizzy. Many men have fallen victim to such an emotion, and there is no assurance that Achilles won't be the next, half god or not.

"He can fight his own battle. I no longer want part of it."

A blessing, it sounds like. A curse, it most likely is.

For a moment, Patroclus only stares at his lover until finally he regains control over his body, stepping towards where the other is frantically pacing the length of the tent.

"What happened?" he asks as calmly as possible.

In his rage, Achilles seems to glow brighter than the embers in the hearth, and he is almost afraid he will get burned as he reaches for him. Yet when their hands meet, some of the fire seems to fade from the other's eyes and suddenly he looks very human.

"He took my prize." His words are filled with venom. "Instead of challenging me like a man, he takes what is rightfully mine. That coward."

No one ever took anything from him, is the first thing Patroclus remembers. A prince. Son of a Goddess. A hero. Aristos Achaion. No one ever dared. Until now.

Then - slowly, horrifyingly - he begins to realize.

"Your prize," he repeats, and the words linger heavily between them.

Both of them know what this means and yet neither of them dares to say it out loud - Achilles because he likely does not want to upset him; Patroclus because he is terrified of facing the truth.

"Briseis," he finally breaks the silence. Then, "No."

Clutching his lover's hands, he desperately seeks his gaze. "You cannot let him take her. He will harm her."

_ Would you rather have Agamemnon take her? _

The first time the other mentioned Briseis, these were his words. It is then that Patroclus understands that his explanation is not needed. Achilles knows. He knows what the man is capable of, yet there is no concern in his eyes, only a dangerous glow.

"Achilles," he tries again, his hands now cupping the other's face. "We must help her. Please."

But it's to no use. For a brief second, he thinks he can see a spark of guilt in his lover's expression, but it's gone as quickly as it came.

"There is nothing I can do for her."

His tone leaves no room for debate and Patroclus can feel tears burning behind his eyes, tears of anger and fear and desperation.

Achilles will no longer fight, will no longer put his life at risk every day - but at what cost?  
  


* * *

It puts a strain on their relationship.

No matter how much Patroclus pleas with him, Achilles refuses his request.

"He will come crawling soon enough," he informs him instead. "He will beg for my forgiveness once he realizes he cannot win without me."

Patroclus prays to all of their gods that the day will come soon. It does not. A week passes, and he can no longer bear it.

He spends even more time in the camp now that Achilles has no obligations during the day, yet where he expected joy, a dark shadow is looming over their heads instead, robbing him of all carefreeness.

"If not for her, do it for me."

His voice is raw with emotion as he asks it, his head resting against his lover's bare chest. He can feel Achilles' sigh before he hears it.

"Anything. Ask anything else of me and I will give it to you in a heartbeat. But this I cannot do."

The answer is expected, but it hurts nonetheless. Shifting, he props himself up enough to look at him.

"You are a better person than that. A kinder person," he whispers as he gazes into deep green eyes. Something in Achilles' expression twitches, and before he knows it a calloused hand cups his neck and draws him in again.

"Not as good as you, Patroclus. Best of all men."

He does not possess the strength to argue with him. As much as he worries for Briseis' safety, a selfish part of him understands why the other acts this way. In the short life he has been promised, honor and pride are all Achilles has left to hold on to - and so he protects them at all cost.

How can Patroclus possibly hold a grudge against him when their time together is still limited?Instead of arguing further, he learns in to brush a small kiss to Achilles' lips.

"You paint me as someone I am not," he argues, but the other only shakes his head.

"You are, to me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What can I say ... it's all falling apart. Let me know what you think!


	13. Shelter

_Simple_ ,  that was what they called him. _ Simple like his mother. Too quiet, too weak. _

_ He must be slow in the head_ , they said, and still he did not speak up. Defending himself was a task that had always seemed too great for him.

Part of him wonders whether it means they were right all along. What kind of prince does not stand up for himself, what kind of prince has such little pride?

Maybe it was the built up tension that led him to shove Clysonymus, all the frustration breaking out of him at once. Maybe he wanted to prove to them that he was no coward, no fool. Or maybe he wanted to prove it to himself more than anyone else.

Never did he consider himself outstandingly smart, but even he knows  this  is a plan so reckless that only a fool would be capable of actually going through with it.

Likely, he thinks, that is what he was all along. Who in their right mind would set foot into the enemy's camp, after all? Who, if not insane, would allow themselves to fall for the Best of the Greeks?

Yet none of his actions were ever led by his head, he realizes. Instead, it was his heart that made his choices for him - and it is his heart that guides him now as well.

It is foolish and dangerous and it could cost him everything, but he knows it is the only way. If he leaves her there, he will regret it for the rest of his days. Even now, he feels he has already waited too long.

The stars are high in the sky when he slips from Achilles' arms. Alert as his lover is during the day, once he is asleep there is nothing that will wake him. A storm could be raging outside, and still he would not stir, his breathing steady against Patroclus' neck. Now that he is not fighting anymore, he seems calmer, more at ease than before. Where his lips used to twitch during the night, soft noises indicating nightmares that Patroclus knows too well, now his expression is completely relaxed.

Often he wonders how Achilles does it, how he can free his conscience of guilt in the blink of an eye. He is not sure how the other is able to speak Briseis' name without flinching the same way he does every time she is brought up. He does not understand how he can pass the medical tent without even casting a glance into its general direction, when even Patroclus wishes to drop everything and help the poor soul who is doomed to take care of the wounded.

There are many of them these days, the stench of blood lingering over the camp at all times. It sickens him, even though he can't help but notice its positive effects, too. Whenever he does return home now, exhausted from staying up all night with his lover, he finds that there is not much for him to bust himself with. The Greeks are struggling without their best fighter, andthe Trojans are seizing the moment. He should feel joy at the sight of the empty pallets but all he can think of is the other side. This war, he realizes, has led him to grieve many losses, both those of friends and strangers.

He is not sure how Achilles can live with the knowledge - yet he does not address it. It's like a silent promise between them, a pact never put into words. Both of them cherish the time they now get to spend together in the light of day, and neither questions the price they're paying for it, at least not out loud.

_ This _ , though, is crossing a boundary - that he has no doubt about. This plan, put together away from his lover's curious eyes, is the greatest form of betrayal.

Yet has he not been building up to this moment right from the start by concealing his true identity? Has he not spun more secrets for Achilles day in and day out in order to uphold his masquerade? This, he thinks, will just be another thing added to a long list of lies. It does not make him feel any less guilty.

His steps are quiet as he weaves his way through the rows of tents. He knows that he does not possess his lover's swiftness, but he does not need it - there is not a single soul up on their feet this time of night. When he reaches the tent where they keep Briseis and finds it unguarded, he speaks a silent prayer to the gods. Whether it is actually their doing or mere luck, he does not dare to question. Whoever is leading him on this path, he is at their mercy.

Silently, he slips inside.

Even in sleep, he can tell she looks broken. The darkness may conceal much but it cannot hide the bruises from his inquiring gaze, and now it's not a prayer but a curse he is speaking. If this is what the king did to her body, then he does not want to know how he harmed her soul. Memories wash over him of the first time he saw her, hidden away in the corner of a tent. He'd pitied her then - now he is terrified. Patroclus knows there is only so much a person can endure before breaking, and fierce as she is, he fears it is already too late.

Quietly, he reaches out to touch her face, yet before his fingertips can even come into contact with her skin, she launches herself at him. For the briefest moment he wonders whether it is out of relief, the embrace of one friend to the other. It is only when her hands close around his throat that he understands there is no way for her to recognize him in the dark.

Her body is small on top of his, her hands of a fragile elegance, but she has surprise on her side. It is only when the pressure intensifies and he feels the lack of air begin to get to his head that he snaps out of his stupor. Desperately he grapples at her wrists, tries to call out her name, but the words fall from his lips as nothing more than a gasp, lost in the sound of his feet kicking at the ground.

Briseis may be delicate, but her anger and fear make her wild as a beast. He knows there is not much he can do in his position - this kind of rage is something he is completely defenseless against. The only escape he sees is to either hurt her or give in, and once more it is his heart that chooses for him.

To his surprise, the moment his body goes lax beneath her, her hold on his throat loosens. It's a mistake, one he's sure every man in the camp was taught early on in life not to make. But Briseis never learned how to fight, was likely never shown how to defend herself, and so she thinks herself safe before she is. Had he meant any harm, this is when he would have turned the situation around, pinned her to the ground and had her at his mercy. Instead, he coughs, his own hands immediately fluttering up to his own neck to shield it from her.

"Briseis," he rasps out, and it's enough to make her freeze in place, enough for him to finally draw in a proper breath. It hurts in his lungs.

"Patroclus."

There is terror in her voice, then, but it's of a different kind than he saw on her features just moments ago. When her hands touch him this time around, it's in a manner as gentle as the wings of a butterfly.

"Patroclus, I did not know ..."

He interrupts her with a shake of his head, reaching up a hand to silence her.

"Quiet," he breathes, his throat sore and his mind still spinning. "Or they will hear."

For a beat he goes quiet, listening for any hint of a noise outside the tent, but there is only blissful silence. In the darkness, he reaches for Briseis' hand that is desperately trying to assess the damage it has done. Reassuringly, he squeezes it. There will be time to apologize later, but now is not the right moment for such courtesies.

"We need to get you out of here. Quick, we do not have much time."

She releases him without a fuss. This, he can't help but think, is what he admires in her - her skill to make sense of a situation within mere moments, her ability to trust when appropriate and take matters into her own hand when necessary. Right now, they both understand, hesitation is uncalled for.

"I told you that Troy will offer you shelter if need be," he whispers before they slip out of the security of the tent. "Now the day has come."

* * *

Relief washes over him when they reach the walls of city at last and he recognizes the guards on duty. Their faces are familiar - he has known them for years, is friendly with their wives, has patched them up on more than one occasion. Both men never hesitate to open the gates for him when he speaks of collecting herbs and let him return without much of a hassle even when two days have passed. He wonders whether they know he owes them his life. Traitors are made quick work of in Troy.

Nonetheless, there are questions as they step past the gates, none of which he is able to provide an honest answer to. Yet as strict as these people are in the handling of their proclaimed enemies, there is one thing he knows to be true: They will never deny shelter to someone in need. And so he spins yet another story, of walking in the close-by woods only to encounter a woman who fled the Greek camp, seeking aid.

If they see the marks on his throat, they do not ask. Instead they offer to take her to the king so that she can plead her case, and he nods, giving her hand another squeeze before sending her off with them. It is up to her now, and though he is reluctant to let her go, he knows there is nothing else he can do for her. One thing he has no doubt about - Briseis knows what to do in order to survive on her own. And so the moment the guards turn their backs, he slips out of the gates once more. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! Thank you so much for reading. Let me know what you think: is this the end of it all?


	14. Prophecies and Promises

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I started this, I was determined to post regularly scheduled updates. You can see how that worked out ... after weeks of silence, I am now back with the second chapter in two days. Enjoy!

Helios' carriage has almost reached the horizon by the time he returns, morning already touching the shores of Troy. Silently, he watches the waves sparkle with its golden light.

Though he tells himself that he does not join Achilles in his tent out of fear to be discovered, he knows deep inside that he is simply not ready to face him yet. How can he look him in the eye and tell him what he has done? Or even worse, how can he deny it? Neither seems a feasible option and so he relishes in his solitude.

It is not granted to him for long. As calm as the sea was just a moment ago, it is now restless, the waves crashing and breaking until at last they part to reveal a familiar figure.

Though the sky has barely been touched yet by rosy dawn, Patroclus feels as though night has come at once. The goddess looms over him, her dress darker even than the deepest sea, and he knows a storm is approaching.

 _He who challenges the gods will pay dearly_ , he suddenly remembers his mother's words, spoken in a rare moment of clarity. _My darling boy, never take their benevolence for granted_. She'd looked across the sea with that mysterious smile of hers, as though all the secrets of the world were hidden inside her mind. If she had such knowledge, she never shared it - and yet he can't help but wonder whether she was aware of more than she let on. It is her voice that echoes in his mind as he meets Thetis' piercing gaze.

_"Have I not warned you?"_

Her voice, sharp as a gust of wind, sends an icy shiver down his spine, and yet he does not move. Where would he run, either way? Back to the plain stretching towards the city, an easy target to anyone desiring to test their skill? To the camp, where he will be faced with questions he knows no answers to?

There is fear inside of him as he looks up at the goddess, but there is hope, too. If she cares enough about her son to shield him from evil, surely she will not kill someone who is so dear to his heart. His best shot, that much he realizes, is in listening to whatever it is she has to say and show his respects. If she wants him to beg for mercy, who is he to deny her?

"Goddess," he breathes, lowering his head. "I do not wish any harm upon your son. It is not glory I seek from being by his side, and I would never dare disrespect ..."

 _"Silence,"_ she hisses and at once his words die in his throat. Whatever he has left to say, he knows it will not change her mind. It is the flaw of the gods, he thinks, to value belief over truth.

_"I will no longer stand by and watch as you taint his honor. He may not yet see how you deceive him, but he will learn."_

"My lady," he starts again, but her gaze is enough to silence him once more.

_"His name is fated to live on for generations to come. They will sing of his heroics until the end of all days, and I will not permit a mortal to interfere with what is rightfully his."_

"Do you not think I wish the same for him?" The words escape before he can stop himself, and he can feel the adrenaline rush through his veins. _Fool,_ his mind yells at him, _be silent_ , but his lips seem to move on their own accord. "I will honor his name for the rest of my days, but you know better than I that such glory comes at a cost. When I found him, he was crumbling beneath the weight of a future he will not live to see. Tell me, do you not wish for him to know happiness in the time he has left?"

Once more, fingers close around his throat, yet this time they are neither warm nor clumsy. He can feel nails sharp as claws cut his skin, can see nothing but her shadow, swallowing all the light in the world.

 _He who challenges the gods will pay dearly_ , he thinks. Yet if this is the price of love, then he will pay it.

When he meets her eyes for what will surely be the last time, he is almost drowned by the sorrow in them.

 _"Foolish boy,"_ she breathes, _"can't you see it is you who will be his downfall? He will take his last breath in the light of your betrayal. I should end this right here ..."_

"Mother."

The voice cuts through the darkness bright as lightning. Where just moments ago the world seemed made of only shadows and pain, it is suddenly flooded with light.

"Mother! Surely you do not wish to harm my therapon."

 _Therapon._ Patroclus' surprise is only overshadowed by his sudden ability to breathe again when Thetis draws away as though she has been burned. She, too, did not expect this.

_"What do you say, my son?"_

"Patroclus is my therapon. He is under my protection as I am under his."

Achilles' voice is sure and confident. A prince. A hero. Not even the presence of a goddess causes his poise to falter. Then again, she _is_ his mother.

"I have chosen him as my closest confidant. If anything were to happen to him ..."

He does not finish his sentence, but to Patroclus' terror it sounds much like a threat. _Achilles_ , he wants to say, but the goddess is faster.

 _"You are sealing your own fate,"_ she informs him, grief swinging in her voice before it goes cold as she once more directs her gaze at Patroclus. _"Mark my words, mortal."_

And then, just as quickly as she has appeared, she is gone and Achilles crouches down by his side.

"Are you hurt?" he demands, calloused fingertips brushing along his neck. There are bruises forming already, and Patroclus knows he should tell him that not all of them stem from his mother's hands, but instead he just shakes his head.

"No damage worse than a scraped knee," he assures him, catching his hand in his own.

It's almost too much to process, the information that has been disclosed to him in these past few moments, and most of it he knows he will have to work through on his own. Yet one thing is up to Achilles to explain.

"You called me your therapon."

The other's expression softens at that, a smile finding its way to his lips. Outlined against the morning light, he almost seems to glow himself.

"It is not enough," he informs him, his voice allowing no dissent. "But it is all I can offer you. Will you do me the honor?"

He should say no. It is not a title he deserves, not when there is so much he is still keeping from him. Yet the other's eyes are filled with such hope that he cannot bear the thought of disappointing him.

Slowly, he nods, and Achilles shines brighter than the sun as he presses a kiss to his brow.

* * *

Barred from fighting for weeks now, Achilles' men are growing restless. _Myrmidons_ , they call them, a name they live up to as they rush around the camp like ants. Even with nothing to do but wait, they seem busy at all times. It would be amusing, Patroclus thinks, were the circumstances any different.

He can imagine how they must feel, held back for no reason but their leader's pride. For ten long years, they've grown accustomed to swinging their swords and throwing their spears day in and day out. Now they watch their comrades die while they are forced to keep their own hands still. There's discontent in war, but to them to be caught in passivity is the greater curse.

Achilles, too, is increasingly struggling to keep his feet still. More than once now, he has seen him challenge one of the other men, craving the thrill of the fight. Yet they are no match for him - most of the time, he disarms them within a single moment.

Whenever he watches, Patroclus can't help but think of the Trojan soldiers' words. _He is like death himself,_ they'd exclaimed in a tone that carried both fear and admiration. _You do not hear him approach unless he wants you to know._

Achilles may be sick of the war, tired of being no more than a tool in someone else's game, but Patroclus knows he longs to indulge in his skill. Patience, he has long learned, is not the other's strength, but regardless he will not yield. If he ever thinks of giving in, he does not show it.

Restlessness is written on everyone's face these days, but as they enter the camp side by side now, Patroclus can't help but notice a change in the air.

Though without a doubt the men have grown used to him following their leader like a shadow, it does not keep them from gossiping like washwomen the moment they turn their backs. Achilles usually brushes it off with a laugh in that careless manner of his, claiming that no one in their position will openly dare disrespect him. Patroclus, on the other hand, has learned to listen to their talk instead.

Today the topic at hand is a different one than usually, and it causes the blood to freeze in his veins once more. His lover, though, seems blissfully unaware of it, the smile still on his lips even as a man approaches them hastily. Patroclus recognizes him as Automedon, Achilles' charioteer and - all things considered - a pleasant person to have in one's company. He is one of the few who do not partake in the whispering, a fact that has earned him his instant sympathy. Now, though, he seems to be in a rush.

"Prince Achilles," he exclaims breathlessly, and the man in question dismisses his attempt at a bow with a wave of his hand. "I come with news."

This, after all, seems to catch Achilles' attention.

"Ah, I've been waiting for this day," he drawls. "Make sure all the men are gathered. I want there to be an audience when he begs on his knees."

Patroclus always gives himself away, then, but Automedon is faster.

"It is not such as you think. She is gone."

"Gone?"

"The girl. She is nowhere to be found."

When no noise comes from Achilles, Patroclus finally dares to turn his head and look at him. To both of his horror and relief, he finds that there is no consternation in the other's expression. Instead, his lips are curling up into a pleased smile.

"Serves him right," he exclaims, and starts moving again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you think I was done with Thetis? Absolutely not. And this is not the last you'll see of her, either.  
> As always, I'd love to hear your thoughts - leave a comment of hit me up on Tumblr @glimmerofgold!


	15. The Fates

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick note on the Fates:  
> In Greek mythology, the Fates are three goddesses who are responsible for the destinies of the mortals. Clotho, who spins the thread of life, is mostly associated with the past and often depicted as the youngest of the sisters. Lachesis measures the thread to its allotted length, therefore standing for the present moment. Atropos, the eldest, stands for the future. She cuts the thread where the life it represents is due to end.

_Past._ The thread runs through the woman's fingers, quick and sure as youth itself. She passes it to the one beside her. The same movement, endlessly, through all of time.

 _Present_. The goddess measures its length with silent care. Many such strings have been held by her hands, bright in the beginning and fading to grey towards the end. This one glows golden through and through.

 _Future._ Where time has left her sisters untouched, the third woman's face carries the lines of age. Her shears linger over the fragile thread in front of her. It is death himself who will receive her finished work, yet he bears no control over its making.

Rarely do they raise their voices. An extraordinary fate it must be indeed for them to lay aside their work for even the briefest of moments. And yet, as if on cue, they pause.

 _"Child in whose veins run both ichor and blood,  
_ _blessed by the water, soul hard to the touch._

 _He who softens beneath his lover's hand,  
_ _will find on these plains his premature end._

 _For affection and grief are a poisonous pair,  
_ _and love goes so often in hand with despair._

 _The passage between glory and fortune is narrow,  
_ _betrayal will pierce his skin like an arrow._

 _Yet he who knows where his heart truly lies  
_ _will not fear the most fatal sacrifice._

 _Will weave the tapestry of life anew  
_ _by yielding where devotion is due,  
_ _and forge one single soul out of the two."_

The shears' sharp edges glint in the thread's golden light, dangerously close. Still, no cut is made. Not yet.

* * *

A gasp leaves Patroclus' throat as he wakes, a thin layer of sweat coating his skin, causing the sheets to stick to him uncomfortably. Inside his chest, his heart is racing. It must be early, he realizes absentmindedly, the sun still sitting low in the sky and barely any light filtering through the tent's thin walls. Beside him, Achilles' resting form slowly begins to stir, the arm wrapped around his waist tightening its hold briefly. He rests his hand against it.

"What troubles you?"

The prince's voice is thick with sleep, dripping from his lips like honey. It is all it takes to pull Patroclus back into reality. Looking down, he catches his lover blinking back at him tiredly, yet even in his half awake state he can tell he has his undivided attention. It's a trait he has always admired in the other - even with a million things on his own mind, he is focused at all times, listening to him attentively. With Achilles, there are no distracted nods and evasive answers. In return, however, he has learned that the other expects the same.

A sigh passes his lips as he tries to sort through the turmoil of his thoughts. Part of him wonders whether it was nothing more than a dream, the strain of the past weeks finally catching up to him. Yet deep inside, he knows there is more to it. Thetis herself mentioned a prophecy, a fact that he now finds confirmed. Will his betrayal truly be the other's downfall? The thought alone causes him to shiver.

"Just a dream," he breathes in a fruitless attempt to calm himself, but of course there is no fooling Achilles. Before he can stop him, the other has already dragged him back down, lips pressing to his shoulder soothingly.

"A dreams that frightened you, nonetheless."

As their eyes meet, Patroclus thinks that maybe some secrets are simply not worth keeping. He may not be able to offer him the whole truth, to disclose his true identity to him, but the least he can do is warn him of the future. If only they both take care, he tells himself, maybe his dream will stay just that - a dream. Yet how much can he bare to him without giving himself away?

"Your mother ... she mentioned the prophecy," he admits quietly, fingertips distractedly trailing along the other's collarbone. "In my dream, I heard the Fates speak of it. Maybe it's foolish ..."

"Or it's a gift from the Gods. A warning." Achilles looks at him with an eager expression and it breaks his heart all over again. If only he knew it was his doom that haunted Patroclus' dreams.

"You don't understand," he tries again. "If it is a warning they're sending, then ..."

"Tell me."

It's not an order, but it may be one all the same. There is nothing he can deny him, not when Achilles holds him like this, not when he looks so pensive.

"Mother never tells me all of it. She keeps the details from me as though I am a child. Do I not have the right to know my future?"

He wants to deny him, wants to shield him from the truth, but underneath Achilles' pleading gaze he finds himself weak. And so he tells him, repeats the prophecy word by cruel word until finally nothing but silence lingers between them.

"What's that betrayal they speak of, you think?" Achilles finally muses, looking surprisingly unbothered. And yet, Patroclus is sure he can see a glint of something in his eyes, something knowing, something dangerous. The other is aware of more than he lets on, he realizes, and it makes his throat feel tight.

"I don't know."

"Are you sure you do not? Surely you must have a suspicion."

Achilles' tone is challenging now, corners of his lips twitching up into his cat's smile. Why is he smiling? If he truly knows, then he should be furious, should call him a traitor and punish him for his crimes. And yet he does none of it. He simply lies there, looking at him and waiting.

"I ..." The words get stuck in his throat, cold fear creeping into his heart.

"Do you think me a fool, Patroclus?"

 _Pa-tro-clus._ Sweet as a summer breeze, gentle and caring. Achilles knows exactly what effect the way he says his name has on him, and he can't help but wonder whether this time there is an underlying threat to it _. Pa-tro-clus, my beloved, how dare you betray my trust?_ He swallows thickly.

"I do not. I would never." It comes out in a single breath.

The other nods. "Then surely it comes to no surprise that I have found out what you have been trying to keep from me."

Patroclus knew the time would come and yet he is not prepared for it, not ready for the truth to stand between them. Just another moment, he silently begs the gods. One more moment by Achilles' side, relishing in his love. One more moment spent in his embrace, so that he can hold on to the feeling for the rest of his – presumably short - life. One more moment of pretend, before he has to face reality.

Deeply, he inhales the other's scent, of sea salt and the olive soap he uses to wash the signs of battle from his skin. Slowly, his head moves to rest above his heart, listening to its steady rhythm.

If he dies for this, he thinks, at least he won't be the reason it ceases to beat. At least through his betrayal he will have saved two lives at once, both Briseis' and Achilles' – one leading to his downfall, the other saved by it. There is something soothing about the thought, about the knowledge that his existence was not entirely without purpose. Maybe this is _his_ destiny, he thinks, and closes his eyes.

"Forgive me.”

There is a stretch of silence, heavy in the air between them. He knows he should say more, should plead for his life and yet he finds himself speechless. It is only when he feels a hand tilt up his chin that he dares blink at the other.

To his surprise, the smile is still present on his lover's lips. It's not dark as the one he sports whenever he speaks of Agamemnon's inevitable plea for mercy, neither cruel nor cold. Instead, it's the same genuine, playful expression that he has come to love, and the sight causes his pulse to quicken once more. _Why is he smiling?_

"I cannot," Achilles hums then, and Patroclus feels the last of his optimism fade. This, he is sure, is what it feels like to die. The Fates were correct: It is a thin line indeed between love and despair, and it is in that moment that he sees himself crossing it.

Is this the Achilles he has gotten to know? Is he truly capable of taking such delight in his misery, smiling down at him as though his life is nothing but a game? It's almost impossible to imagine, and yet the fear is instilled in him so deeply that he can't seem to grasp on to a single clear thought. Not even in the first moment he saw him, Achilles felt so much like a stranger, so much like the monster the Trojan soldiers described. And yet the familiarity in the way he looks at him remains, cruelly keeping the last spark of hope alive within his chest. _If he truly loves you_ , his heart whispers, _maybe he will understand._

"After all, there is nothing to forgive."

The words startle him, render him speechless once more. Achilles' smile brightens as he looks at him, a gentle laugh falling from his lips. It's as familiar as the sound of the wind, of waves washing against the shore, and yet he cannot make sense of it. Only slowly it begins to dawn on him that the other is not mocking him and he feels dizzy with the realization. Why is Achilles not furious? Does his love run deep enough, after all, to forgive even this kind of treason?

“Have you lost your ability to speak, philtatos? I do not know you to be so quiet.”

It is his lover's clear voice that finally causes him to regain enough of his sanity to raise his own.

“You are not upset with me?”

No matter how hard he tries to hide his disbelief, he knows it to be audible in his quivering tone. Achilles, too, slowly seems to catch on to the extent of his desperation, for his expression softens as he places a single kiss between his furrowed brows.

“Upset? No.” He shakes his head. “Though I wish you had told me it was you who freed her. Surely you must have known I would approve of such a plan. Have you heard the men talk? Now they finally see his true nature – their glorious king, unable even to keep a woman under his control. A woman he stole from me, no less.”

Achilles' pride is ill-mannered at best, but in that moment Patroclus does not even think to scold him for it. He is too occupied with the relief that is washing over him in such an intense manner that it causes his whole body to shake in the other's hold, tears spilling from his eyes like a flood. The severity of his outbreak seems to startle his lover as much as it does himself and for a long moment they merely cling to each other, bodies pressed so close that Patroclus cannot tell them apart.

It is in Achilles' embrace that he finally finds himself able to think clearly again. Of all the secrets the other could have discovered, it is this one that he is sure is the easiest to forgive.

 _Fortune always seems to favor the fools, don't you think?_ he hears Andromache's playful voice in his head, the sweet sound of shared laughter filling his memories and making his heart just a little lighter. Never did he think these particular words would apply to him and yet now they fill him with unspeakable ease.

Today the Fates had the opportunity to cut the thread of his life but instead they chose to spare him. _What for?_ he can't help but wonder, but the answer does not come to him and his mind is too tired to cling to the issue.

“I thought ...” he eventually breaks the silence, though the words are barely more than a whisper before they fade into nothing.

What can he tell him? How can he possibly explain how close his whole world came to collapsing just moments ago? What words would be suited to describe the agony he feels with every breath, that dreadful mixture of hope and guilt that has found a permanent place in his heart by now? How can he make him understand that, while he is grateful for his forgiveness, he does not feel he deserves it?

How can he look him in the eye when there is so much more he is keeping from him? Will he always be so lucky?

“I'm sorry,” he whispers, and it holds a hundred different meanings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This whole chapter is an emotional mess on both Achilles' and Patroclus' side and I am terribly sorry. I promise, the chaos will be resolved soon! Don't give up yet.
> 
> Also, huge thanks to @Johaerys for the constant support and advice! You're the best!


End file.
